I Won't See You Now Till I Surrender
by Samwise221b
Summary: Sequel to "The Woman at His Side". A month after their elopement, Elfie and Sherlock are faced with Moriarty and his solution to 'the final problem'. Things quickly go south and domestic bless no longer seems an option for the Holmes'. It is soon all in the hands of Sherlock Holmes to make things right again...no matter the cost. A Rechienbach/reunion story. Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1: The Domestic Life

_Chapter 1: The Domestic Life_

"Elfie! Is that you? Please get up here!"

'_What's he done now?'_ I think, locking the door behind me and adjusting the grocery bags in my arms. One hour. I leave 221B Baker Street for one hour to get the shopping done and Mrs. Hudson is screaming for me. Can't that man of mine relax for just a short while? He is going to give our poor landlady a heart attack one of these days I just know it.

"Sherlock Holmes," I hear her shout, "You know that I don't mind your experiments, but-Oi, put that back! A mop is not a substitute for a…"

_CRASH!_

"Oh, now look what you've done!" She scolds, "You just wait until your wife gets home, young man!"

With a content smile and a sigh, I head upstairs toward Mrs. Hudson's frantic yells. I'm not use to being called that, yet: _his_ wife. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself and fiddle with the small silver band and amethyst ring on my finger just to make sure that I'm not living in a fantasy. I always imagined that, when I'd settle down, I'd spend the rest of life happily working at the museum, not giving a toss for the world passing me by and leading a simple lifestyle. However, what I settled down with is, of course, far from a simple life.

I settled down with Sherlock Holmes.

To most people, settling down means that all dangers and craziness of the past are put aside for more sensible things, such as children and a comfortable home life. For us, that is not the case. I would never ask Sherlock to stop being who he is. Why would I? I signed up to come along on his crazy life the day I became his girlfriend. When you're with Sherlock, you take in everything: the all nighters, the experiments, the frantic mood swings. Life is hectic and a non-stop roller coaster. True, I'd prefer a moment of dullness every once and awhile to catch my breath, but that's a lost luxury when living with the world's only consulting detective.

There is never a dull moment and don't ever expect there to be.

When I make it up to our door, I find Mrs. Hudson, quivering in the archway like a scared puppy: "Mrs. Hudson, you alright?" I ask

"Oh, Elfie, thank Heaven." She cries, turning to face me and taking my hand into hers, "I just don't know what's gotten into him. He's acting like, well, like a mad man!"

"Where's John?"

"I thought he was in, but apparently not. Oh, you've got to talk with Sherlock. He's going to destroy this place in a matter of seconds."

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure he just needs a more challenging case." I assure her, "You know how he gets when he's bored."

Suddenly, there's a loud yelp and a loud BAM! I immediately drop the bag of groceries and rush into the living room. There, sprawled out on his back beside the over turned coffee table, dressed in his black slacks and that too tight purple shirt, is my darling husband. There is a black blindfold over his eyes and he's holding a mop in one hand.

"Sherlock," I say, quickly kneeling beside him, "you okay?" He just groans in reply and attempts to stand, only to fall back again. I gently cradle his head in my lap and remove the blindfold. After a couple blinks, Sherlock locks his gaze on my face and smiles.

"Hello." He says, "Where have you been? I've been calling for you for ages."

"I went to the store an hour ago," I chuckle, running my fingers through his curls to check if he's bumped his head, "Sherlock, what the hell happened?"

"Experiment." He retorts, gazing up at me with those sea foam eyes, innocently, "I was testing if a person could in fact get around with a stick as their sole instrument of sight."

"What?"

"Like a blind person, Elfie. Think!" he says, rolling his eyes in slight annoyance, "It's obvious."

"Oh," I say, unphased by his insult, "and were you expecting to go blind?"

"Don't be daft," he scoffs, "Of course, I'm not planning to…Wait, was that sarcasm?"

I roll my eyes and lean down to kiss him on the forehead. He can be so naïve sometimes. To my surprise, but not my displeasure, Sherlock lifts himself up on his elbows and turns his head just in time for my lips to land on his. I close my eyes and give in fully to my love for this man: My man. My Sherlock.

After exchanging a few quick kisses, Sherlock leaps up onto his feet. "Mrs. Hudson!" he calls out, tossing our poor, dumb founded, land lady the mop, "it has occurred to me that it is impossible to move around this flat if blind. Quiet a safety hazard, but fortunately it's helped me solve this case. Thanks very much."

"I don't understand you, dear, I really don't." she replies, shaking her head as she heads back to her flat. Sherlock then turns to me and takes my hands into his.

"Now, let me do this properly," he whispers, pulling me up to my feet and into a tight embrace. Before I can utter a single word, Sherlock dips me down and plants a deep passionate kiss on my lips. I close my eyes and slowly wrap my arms around his neck, allowing my body to become dead weight in his arms.

"That was unexpected," I say, after our lips part, "thank you."

"Of course," he replies, kissing my cheek, "its what husbands do with their wives isn't it?" I let out a small giggle and we kiss again. God, I love this man.

"Where's John?" I ask, after a few (more like five) more minutes of kissing.

"Upstairs, asleep," Sherlock says, pulling me upward, "Late night at the clinic apparently. Have you got your phone on you?"

"Yes, why?"

"Text Lestrade. Tell him that the old lady tripped and fell, hitting her head on the coffee table on her way down. No attack from behind, just an accident. He'll know what it means."

"Poor lady." I grumble, pulling out my cell.

A case. It's always a case with him and I'm happily along for the ride. I've lost count on the number of cases I've gotten to be apart of since meeting Sherlock and John, but I've never forgotten how much they've changed me. The blog John writes about the cases is merely entertainment for it's readers, but to me it's a short series of memoirs: The memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, as it were.

"Have you done it?" the consulting detective protests, hovering over my shoulder: his heavy breathing, beating down on my neck.

"Wait, hang on." I reply, "I just took my phone out."

"Let me do it. Too slow." Sherlock snatches up my phone and walks off to the kitchen.

'_What shall the title of this one be?' _I think as I watch him pace the linoleum floor, _'An Elderly Accident? The Blind Fall? Or maybe just The Fall?' _

Chuckling to myself, I shake my head and retrieve the groceries I left at the door. I pause for a moment, though, and take in the clutter around the room. Papers are strewn about and a mannequin is hanging by the neck in the kitchen archway. Seriously, I'm gone for an hour and he's turned the entire living room into ground zero. I just sigh heavily and shake my head. Sherlock's mess is just part of home for me. Upon arriving at Baker Street, yes, the clutter of papers and scientific materials all thrown about did startle me, but now, I'm immune to it: Part of the package of being his wife.

I pick up my bag or groceries and walk into the kitchen, being careful not to nudge the mannequin; it's probably another experiment. Sherlock is now typing furiously at his laptop: eyes glued to the screen, face unmoving and stern, fingers moving at lighting speed, so serious and so lost in his work.

Ah, deep in the mind palace now. He won't be talking for a while then.

Removing the groceries from the bag, I begin to wonder, as I often do, how fast he solved this case. He and John had received the call yesterday and only viewed the body at the morgue. The old woman had died from blunt force trauma to the head, John determined that, but there was no evidence showing she had fallen. Well, no evidence but to Sherlock, who saw everything. He amazes me that way; He can tell you your life story after one afternoon chat and then tell you what you had for breakfast just to show off. He's arrogant, but brilliant.

"Where's my phone?" I ask placing my last item in the fridge; thankfully it's cleared of experimental body parts…for now.

No response. He's still typing.

"Alrighty. Shall I go find it then?"

Nothing. He does this; I don't take it personal. I spot my phone in his pant pocket and roll my eyes. He's taken my phone before, thinking it's his. It's annoying. Carefully, I reach into his pocket and grab it; He doesn't even notice.

"Right, shall I clean up your mess then or is it all apart of the experiment?" I ask, but I know that it's in vain. I roll my eyes and reenter the living room.

As I straighten up the coffee table, I notice a black folder stuffed between the cushions of the couch. Curious, I pull it out and open it. The contents make me smile and warm my heart. It's our wedding album, or at least the makings of it. There is a flier from the Cross-Keys Inn, one of our hotel room keys, a pressed yellow rose from my bouquet and other items from that weekend. What really makes me happy to see is a picture of us, taken just moments after we said 'I do.'

Sherlock doesn't even look like himself in this photo. For one, he's smiling, which never happens. Ever. Unless, he's being polite which is a rarity in itself. His arms are wrapped around me and our foreheads are nuzzled together. My heart skips a beat as I remember that day and how very happy it made me to become 'Mrs. Sherlock Holmes'.

God, I'll never forget that day.

Sherlock had worn his black suit and I had bought a simple, flowing white dress; the whole thing was planed so quickly that I didn't have time to buy a gown, but I didn't care. The attendance was small-just my mother, Mycroft, John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson-and the ceremony was held in a private chapel. Afterwards, Sherlock and I had the entire week to our selves. We rarely just have private time together, where a case or my job doesn't get in the way, so it was nice to just be with him. It was…romantic to say the least. Lets just say, our evenings were never dull.

Everything was perfect and it was the best time of my life. That's a cliché thing to say, but it is the truth. Nothing will ever compete with becoming Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.  
"That was suppose to be a surprise," the unexpected sound of Sherlock's voice startles me and I quickly turn around on my heel to see him leaning in the archway of the kitchen.

"Oh hello. I thought you wouldn't be speaking for at least an hour," I say, "Nice to see you." Sherlock chuckles and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"Mrs. Hudson thought it would be a pleasant gift or something for you." He goes on, "I don't see the point really. We were there, why does there need to be a binder about it?"

"Sherlock, don't pretend your heartless," I tease, "This was your idea, wasn't it?"

"How can you tell?"

"Because you took this picture away from John after he snapped it." I say, holding up the photo, "You said that he'd loose it and then who knows who could have gotten a hold of it." Sherlock blushes and walks over to me.

"You've caught me in a rare act of kindness," he whispers, setting his hands on my waist, "Well done, Mrs. Holmes. You're deduction skills are getting better."

I giggle, set the binder down on the couch, and wrap my arms around his neck: "Why thank you, Mr. Holmes." I say, tangling my fingers in his curls, "I have to be honest though, I never took you for the sentimental type."

"Not sentimental." He retorts, "Just…nice."

"Never took you for that either."

Sherlock chuckles in his deep baritone way that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and gently kisses me on the cheek. He then takes me by the hands and sits me down on the couch beside him. I curl up as close to him as possible and rest my head on his shoulder. He's taking a break from the mind palace so I'm going to take advantage of it.

"Mrs. Hudson showed me hers once; her wedding album," he says, picking up the binder and examining its contents, "She told me that even though her husband was less than perfect, it was a reminder of how in love they were."

"That's really sweet," I say, "nice of her to share it with you too."

"Yes, she said that the only reason she put one together was to one day show her children." He goes on, but then becomes very serious, "Do want those?" he asks, looking at me, "Children, I mean."

"Um, at some point, yes." I reply, getting a bit nervous, "Do you?"

Sherlock sucks on his lower lip and looks down at the floor: "I don't think I'm father material." He says, "You on the other hand would be an excellent mother."

"Thank you," I say, a bit confused. Children have never been a topic of conversation between us before. I always assumed that Sherlock didn't like kids, so I never brought it up. I don't want children that badly, but being a mom would be nice; I definitely would be more caring and supportive then my own mother was, that's for certain.

"Sherlock," I say, making sure he understands where I stand on this topic, "we don't have to have kids right now. That can be further down the line. When we're both ready…that is if you even want to have kids." Sherlock nods as he stares off into the distance for a moment, deep in his thoughts. He then snaps his head back to me and kisses the top of my head.

"Now, stop that," he says, getting up and heading back to the kitchen, "I have work to do and you're distracting me." Confused, I just shake my head and follow him, deciding that a cup of tea would make me feel less uncomfortable about the whole children topic. God, I'm turning more and more British by the second.

As I prep the kettle and water, I watch Sherlock work at his microscope. I love to watch him when he's in his element. He has such grace and naturalism when it comes to solving crimes. It definitely is the thing he was put on this earth to do. Sometimes, I'll admit, he worries me. He gets to involved in some cases and it scares me. He'll do anything just to solve a case and sometimes that means danger. Yes, I know that this is what he does for a living and I wouldn't change that. I just wish he would consider the risks before putting his life on the line. He doesn't need to only care for himself anymore; he has me, his wife, to care for. It would be beyond devastating if he left me. I don't know what I'd do.

Lost in my thoughts and not paying attention to a single thing I'm doing, I pour hot water from the kettle and miss my cup completely. The water singes my hand and I quickly yell out in pain. "Shit!" I yell, plopping the kettle down and kissing my burnt hand. "Damn it!" The next thing I know, two large hands are holding my injured one. My eyes lock with his glass like ones; so beautiful and so mesmerizing.

"You alright?" Sherlock asks, gently rubbing the burn. His touch is surprisingly soft and tender.

"Um, uh, y-yeah." I mumble, feeling slightly embarrassed, "Just, uh, wasn't thinking straight. It's not bad, just a little burn. Nothing cold water and a wash cloth won't fix." As I speak, Sherlock has already placed a damp washcloth over my burn. I look at him and he starts to chuckle. "What?" I ask, a bit offended, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." he replies, "Just noting the fact that you've lived in London for nearly the whole of your adult life and you still can't make a decent cuppa without burning yourself. Not your fault though, your just American."

Ah, that's the Sherlock I know and I love.

I'm about to give him a sassy reply when the look on his face changes from relaxed, if you can call it that, to his thinking face. It's when he looks like his mind has left this planet and traveled to some universe of a case.

"Sher-"

"Yes, of course, American!" he whispers. Suddenly, he whisks to his laptop and busily types the words coming out of his mouth:

"The man who was hit with the cab at the airport was preoccupied with his mobile phone. He was flying in from Paris because he had business there, not because he was French, no, his hair was to tint for that: Definitely American, due to the enormous amount of dye in his hair and his pristine dental work. Now, preoccupied with his phone, he didn't bother to look where he was going and stepped out into on coming traffic. The cab hit him, he fell to the ground, breaking his skull and the cabbie drove off in fear of being caught and blamed for the man's death. The man wasn't a target, just an idiot. This is the one for the blog, Elfie my darling, not the old woman."

Sherlock proudly shuts the laptop down and closes the lid. I just stare at him in awe. He never ceases to amaze me, this man.

"So, you just solved two cases in one afternoon." I say, adjusting my washcloth.

"Yes," he replies, standing up and preparing to exit, "two easy ones. Not much of a challenge."

"Yes, but-Never mind." I don't try to figure out his logic; I'm just along for the ride. "Um, I'm off to take a shower. You can have my tea."

"Don't want it." Sherlock mutters, picking up his violin. He begins to play a classical tune. Mozart perhaps? I shrug and go towards the bathroom. Suddenly, he jolts in front of me, still playing and looks down at my hand. "Try not to run hot water on it." He says, between strokes of his bow.

"Yes, thank you, but I am a grown woman." I retort, "I can take care of myself."

"Clearly," he remarks with a click of his tongue; he does that when he's trying to be cool. He walks back over to his spot by the window and plays even louder.

"You'll wake John." I say, over the music.

"That's the plan." He replies. I laugh and stare at him for a few moments. He looks so handsome and my stomach is full of butterflies. He catches my eye and stops playing. "Problem?" he asks and I just shake my head.

"Nothing, just…I love you, Sherlock Holmes." I say with a smile.

Sherlock smiles back and returns to his music: "I love you too, Elfie Holmes."

_**Hello!**_

_**So here is the first chapter to my sequel. It's just a set up but I wanted to get it out there. For those who have not read my prequel, this is a Reichenbach story. I plan on sticking to the episode's story line and have a pretty good idea for how Elfie will take part in it all.**_

_**But I won't tell now…Spoilers ;)**_

_**I hope to get chapter 2 up by next week at some point.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	2. Chapter 2: Crime of the Century

_Chapter 2: Crime of the Century_

"No, Mom, he's busy."

"Too busy to speak with his mother-in-law?"

"Definitely too bust to do that."

My mother huffs a sigh of annoyance on the receiving end of the phone. She called about an hour ago while I was comfortably reading my book on the couch. John, who had arisen from his shower after being grumpily awoken by the violin, was reading his paper and Sherlock was deep in his work in the kitchen behind his microscope, so I only thought it polite to take the call in the bedroom. Besides, I need to do laundry; as much I love him in it, Sherlock can't wear that purple shirt all the time.

Good Lord, I've become such a housewife.

"What do you need to talk to Sherlock about anyway?" I ask, setting the laundry hamper down on the bed and pressing the phone to my ear with my shoulder.

"I need his help, believe it or not." My mother replies, "It's about an employee of mine. They seem…off."

"Mom, I've told you before: Sherlock can't be your personal screening service," I say, picking up a pair of trousers from the floor, "He has a lot of other things to do then make sure your business stays afloat. If you have a problem with an employee, investigate it yourself."

"You make it seem like I'm abusing my son-in-laws skills," she says, "Anyway, I also wanted to congratulate him on his success. He's getting quiet a name for himself, honey. You must be proud."

"Yes, he has caught the attention of the press." I reply, "How do you know about it? You barely even read the local paper, let alone world news."

"I may not keep completely up to date with the press, Elfie Marie, but I pay enough attention to recognize my son-in-law's name on the news, especially with a name like his; There aren't that many Sherlock roaming about the world, honey. You're married to a celebrity."

I roll my eyes and chuckle at the thought: Sherlock? A celebrity? Hardly. I mean, sure, people know his name because of John's blog and he's solved some high profile cases, he's even got a sort of public image now with that silly deerstalker, but I'd hardly consider him to be a celebrity. He's just well known.

"Any way, I've been meaning to ask you," my mother goes on, "when should I be expecting grandchildren?"

"Whoa, whoa, Mom!" I exclaim, nearly dropping the phone, "where did that come from?"

"It's a reasonable question," she says, sounding very annoyed at my surprise, "You and Sherlock do want to have kids don't you?"

"Um, well, I don't know." I stammer, "I mean, we haven't talked about it. Well, we did for a bit today, but-Its not really important."

"Not important? Oh, sweet heart, of course it is." She goes on, "You two are married now, that should be a top priority."

"Well, it's not in our relationship." I say, getting defensive, "Sherlock has his work to consider and I have my job as well."

"I managed to build a business and raise you all on my own. Surely you two can juggle your careers with a baby."

"Mom. You're pushing it."

"I'm sorry, Elfie Marie," she says, sounding actually apologetic. My mother and I don't have the best of relationships, but after recent events we've sort of come together. It's not easy to make amends with someone who, for so long, neglected my life choices, but she's actually making an effort. At the wedding, in fact, she didn't make one motion to make the day about her. She was beyond loving and supportive; it was sort of weird to see her that way, but it made me happy.

"It's alright," I say, tossing Sherlock's pajamas into the hamper, "Anyways, we've only been married for a month. Doesn't starting a family seem like rushing it a bit?"

"Not at your ages, sweet heart." She says

"Oh yes, thank you for the age reminder." I say with a hint of sass.

"Don't give me your attitude, Elfie Marie. I am your mother."

"I'm aware of that fact, thanks."

"Elfie…"

"…Sorry, Mom."

Just then, the bedroom door flies open and Sherlock is standing in the archway; his face is cold and emotionless, but I can see in his eyes that he's extremely distraught. We lock eyes and I immediately recognize that look. It's a look he only shows when one thing happens, when one twisted, unwanted, thing enters our lives to cause mayhem and turmoil.

It's him.

It's Moriarty.

Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh and runs a hand through his curls: "Living room. Now. Please." He says then quickly turns on heel and leaves.

"Mom," I say, a bit nervous as to what Moriarty may have done now, "I'm going to have to call you back."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes, I'm sure they are. I'm-I've just got to go. Bye, Mom. Love you." I click the phone to hang up and quickly head to the living room. What does the consulting criminal want now?

It's been almost 4 months since I had my first encounter with him, but the memories are still too fresh in my mind. I wish he had never entered my life, but it was inevitable since I am Sherlock's girl. When accepting the whole package of Sherlock Holmes, Jim Moriarty is included no matter how badly you want to get rid of him. They are engaged in a never-ending tango of wits and all I can do is stay on the sidelines. I've tried getting involved for Sherlock's sake, but I just couldn't handle it emotionally. I almost lost Sherlock during that madness and I don't ever want to go through that fear ever again: It was too close to home, too close to reality.

When I enter the living room, John is slipping on his shoes and Sherlock is tying his scarf around his neck. Both look stressed and unwilling to do the task at hand. John will follow Sherlock to the ends of the Earth, but even this Moriarty business takes a toll on him.

"Is there a case?" I ask, but I already know that it's more than just that.

"Should I tell her or do you want too?" John asks, looking toward Sherlock, who chooses to not acknowledge him; He just pulls his phone out from his coat pocket and holds it out to me. Cautiously, I take it and unlock the screen to reveal a haunting text:

'_Come and Play. _

_Tower Hill._

_Jim Moriarty x.'_

I take in a sharp breath and look at Sherlock: "What does that mean?" I ask, trying my best to sound calm.

"At this moment, I don't know." He replies, taking the phone back, "Hence why I'm leaving right now."

"You're going to meet with him?" I ask, "But…but what if he tries to-what if it's a trap or something?"  
"Don't be so foolish, Elfie." Sherlock replies with an icy sting, "I highly doubt that even Jim Moriarty would be stupid enough to-"

"Sherlock, don't." John warns, giving his best friend a stern look. Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion and gives John a 'what-did-I-do-wrong' gesture with his hands. John nudges his head to me and Sherlock quickly realizes his mistake. He looks at my worried face and sighs heavily.

"I'm sorry," he says, taking my hands into his, "It's just…"

"I know," I reply, understanding his coldness, "it's just how you get when…_he's_ involved." Sherlock just nods and gently squeezes my hands. With my concern taking over, I quickly wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for an embrace. Sherlock holds me in return, pressing his lips to my cheek in a kiss. "Be careful." I whisper into his ear. Sherlock chuckles slightly and cups my face in his hands; those sea foam eyes stare lovingly into my emerald ones and I feel so immensely in love with this man.

"Don't worry about me," he whispers, nuzzling his forehead against my own, "I can handle him." All I can do is sigh heavily and nod. As much as I want to, I can't stop Sherlock from answering this text. It's in his nature to accept a challenge, especially if it's from Moriarty.

I set my hands on Sherlock's chest and lean in to kiss him. He returns the gesture then steps away from me. We give each other an understanding nod and Sherlock quickly descends the steps to the front door. With a heavy sigh, John rises from his chair and starts to follow the consulting detective.

I quickly grab him by the elbow: "John, keep an eye on him." I whisper, "Something doesn't seem right about all this."

"I'll watch out for him, Elfie." John says, patting my hand, "I promise you. That's my job." I give him a small smile and watch as he too descends the stairs.

My stomach is churning, but I don't really know why. Moriarty always posses some sort of threat to Sherlock, but why is this text making me so uneasy? Is it because it was so direct? Why would he tell Sherlock where he was going to be?

Not wanting to spend another thought on this, I shake my head and go to kitchen to see if I can occupy myself with something to cook.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The news was everywhere and spread like wild fire through the presses.

It was being called _'the most audacious crime in recent history'_.

The whole of London was a buzz about one man: Jim Moriarty.

He had broken into three places at once: Tower of London, Pentonville Prison and Bank of England. Three of the most heavily guarded places in all of London and James Moriarty had managed to destroy all their security systems, like it was nothing, in matter of mere seconds. He was found, waiting patiently for the police, at Tower Hill. It was apparent that he hadn't been to either of the other locations at the times of their security failures. Everything was conducted from a single location. It was confusing, mind blowing and yet…genius. The perfect crime: committing the act without ever being present.

I, of course, heard the details before the press, thanks to John. When he and Sherlock came home from the scene, Sherlock grabbed his laptop and immediately locked himself in the bedroom. Being his wife, I went to follow him, but John gently held me back. "Don't," he had said, "Not now. I'll explain." We sat down on the couch and he told me the whole ordeal.

From what John told me, when the police had reached Tower Hill, Moriarty went without a fuss. He didn't even utter a word as they drove him down to the Yard. He did however leave a message on the broken glass:

'_Get Sherlock.'_

Shivers ran down my spine when he told me this: "What does that mean?" I asked, but John just shakes his head in dismay.

"I don't know," he sighed, "and to be perfectly honest…I don't think Sherlock does either."

Every news station was covering the story, trying to piece together the odd puzzle. Every paper had Moriarty's smug, devilish grin on the front page, staring straight ahead like maniac he is. The world was finally getting a glimpse of whom Moriarty is and I it makes me sick. Someone like him doesn't deserve attention, he deserves to be locked away forever and doomed to never see the light of day again. It's cold, but I don't care. I've never hated someone more then I hate him.

The trail begins and, of course, it is the only topic in 221b. Why wouldn't it be? I've tried to get Sherlock to talk to me about it, but he either ignores me or just brushes the topic aside. He can be so stubborn and cold sometimes, especially when it comes to Moriarty. He thinks he has to deal with him alone, but he doesn't; He has John and me. Sometimes, I think, Sherlock forgets that he's not alone in this world.

It's been about a week into the "trial of the century" and I'm sitting on the couch, reading the paper. John went out to grab dinner and Sherlock is quietly working on his new experiment: something to do with honey, I think. Everything is calm and peaceful, but then I notice a particular headline:

_ '"Sherlock Holmes Called as Expert Witness: Scotland Yard calls upon 'nation's most famous detective' in Moriarty trial.'"_

I immediately fold the paper down into my lap and give my husband a shocked glare. Expert Witness? Why the hell didn't he tell me this? I had no idea he was even going to get directly involved in this madness. I thought, for once, Sherlock was just going to let the system run its course. What am I saying? This is Sherlock; He hates the system.

"Sherlock, honey," I say, trying to sound like I'm not about to blow my lid, "when were you going to tell me you were being called in as a witness?"

"Witness for what, darling?" he asks, not even looking up from his honeycomb samples.

"Witness for the trial of Jim Moriarty." I reply, "Where you going to tell me about it or just wait and see if I'd catch it on TV?"

"Don't be stupid, Elfie. They don't let television cameras into the court room."

"Sherlock…"

"Wonder if I've got enough jars to preserve this in. Elfie, could you go look in the kitchen and see if we have any containers left? Mrs. Hudson through most of them out after she found my stash of eyes. Honestly, they were perfectly well preserved and I kept them out of the way of food. There was no need for her to over react and throw out my entire supply. Which reminds me, I need to get my replacements from Molly."

"Sherlock! Shut up for two seconds and look at me." He quickly lifts his head up and looks at me in surprise. "Sorry," I say, taking in a deep breath, "I didn't mean to shout just now. But Sherlock, tell me what's going on? You've been keeping me in the dark with this Moriarty thing and, frankly, I'm worried."

Sherlock sighs heavily and sets a hand on his hip; "It's hard to explain." He says, running his other hand through his mop of curls, "Moriarty has a plot, obviously, or else he wouldn't have willingly been caught."

"He…he wanted to be arrested?" I ask,

"He wanted all this attention," he corrects, joining me on the couch, "It was the only way he was going to get me to see his message: 'Get Sherlock' He wanted me to see his cunning work because-"

"It's the frailty of genius; it needs an audience." I finish for him. Sherlock gives me a questioning look and I just smirk right back. He chuckles slightly and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

"I think you've been around me for far too long," he teases, pulling me in to kiss the top of my head, "you always know what I'm going to say next."

"Of course I do, I'm your wife." I say, situating myself on his lap, "But you're not entirely right; I don't always know what you're going to say because I don't always know what's happening in that beautiful brain of yours. Like this whole Moriarty business; what did he mean by _'Get Sherlock'_? What's going to happen? What has he got planed?"

"Shh, no need to panic, love. I have this under control. Just relax." Sherlock soothes, pulling me in close so that I'm comfortably being cradled in his arms. He lies down on the couch and I situate my body to fit perfectly along his. I nuzzle my head under his chin and he gently starts to stroke my back; "I'm going to be truthful with you," he goes on in a soft comforting tone, "I don't know what Moriarty has planed. I honestly don't know what his next move will be. That's the reason I accepted to this 'expert witness' title; the court will rely on my knowledge of Moriarty and I will get a first hand look into what he may be doing during the trail."

"Do you think he's rigged the jury?" I ask,

"If he hasn't' already, I'm sure he'll plan on doing so." He says, "that would be the clever thing to do, but that may be too obvious of a move for him."

"It's always a game with to the two of you isn't it," I say, sitting up slightly.

"Yes and I don't plan on loosing, not ever." Sherlock states rather mater of factly, "It's like an intense, psychological game of cat and mouse."

"So which are you, pray tell?" I say, situating myself so that I'm lying on top of my husband, my arms folded atop his chest with my chin resting comfortably on them, "The cat or the mouse?"

"The cat, obviously." He replies with that arrogant tone of his, "Did you honestly think I'd compare myself to a mouse?" I chuckle and lean forward to meet his lips in a kiss. To my surprise, Sherlock deeps the kiss and slowly moves his hands to my hips. My heart starts to race as I feel his legs hook with mine and trap me in this position. I look into his eyes and see the desire burning behind those orbs: "Take me. Right now." He whispers, pecking at my earlobe, "I need you."

"Sherlock." I sigh, playfully slapping his chest, "Don't change the subject. I'm not done with this topic, yet."

He rolls his eyes and relaxes a bit: "What's left to talk about?" he groans in annoyance, "I'm going to testify on Thursday and I'll let you know what I think after that. Trust me, will you?"

"Wait," I say, putting my hand up to stop his oncoming lips, "don't you want me to come with you? I mean, for moral support and what not."

"I don't want you anywhere near Jim Moriarty." Sherlock declares, suddenly become very serious and stern, "John will be coming with me only because he has dealt with Moriarty before."

"So have I, remember?" I say, sitting up in his lap, "I'm not afraid of him, Sherlock. Besides, I want to be there for you."

"No." he says, sitting up right, "The last thing I want is for Moriarty or the press to see you and make a scene. Please, Elfie, will you do this for me: Stay here, go to work, call your mother, I really don't care what you do. Just stay away from Moriarty." His eyes then soften as he strokes a stray hair out of my eyes, "I can't loose you." He says in a whisper, "I'm not going to put you in harms way."

A small smile grows across my face and I gently cup Sherlock's face in my hands. "I love you," I say, nuzzling my forehead against his, "and if you want me to stay out of this-as much as I don't want to-I will."

"Thank you." Sherlock says, kissing my cheek, "and I love you too." I wrap my arms around him in an embrace and he does the same. Maybe he's right; maybe I should just stay out of it. When I last encountered Moriarty, my whole life was turned around and not necessarily for the better. If there is some plot afoot, then it's just better if I let Sherlock do his thing and stay out of it.

"You know, I'm kind of jealous," I say when we finally part, "the history nerd in me really wants to experience the law and order system of England." Sherlock raises an eyebrow of surprise at me then smiles.

"You never cease to surprise me, Elfie." He says, with a chuckle, "And I hate to burst your fantasy, but the English court system is quiet dull."

"Oh, really? You sound like an expert." I tease, resting my hands on his chest.

"This isn't my first time testifying," he says with an annoyed hint to his voice, "There's too much sitting down and listening to egotistical people blabbering on about how much they know about the case."

"Hmm, sounds like someone I know." I tease. Sherlock lets out that deep baritone chuckle that I love so much and quickly grabs my middle.

"Alright, enough chatter," he says, pulling my hips as close to his pelvis as possible, "Say nothing and let me just have you." I let out an excited squeal as Sherlock flips me down on the couch and onto my back. He pins me there with his body and places a trail of kisses down my neck, running his hands under his shirt. I close my eyes and wrap my arms around his neck, allowing my whole body to go numb.

"Sherlock," I whisper, nipping at his ear, "bedroom."  
"No time," he breathes out in reply, "Here." Before I can even get in another word, Sherlock crashes his lips against mine and we are lost in each other's love. Time flies by and just for now, there is no Jim Moriarty or anybody whose planning to _'Get Sherlock.'_

Just as I am about to undress and Sherlock is undoing his trousers, we both freeze and stare at one another. There was a creak from the staircase.

"You heard it too?" my husband asks in a breathy voice and I nod. Slowly, he gets off of me and adjusts his belt to its proper place. "Well, John, are you going to just stand there looking like a fish out of water or are you perhaps going to give us our dinner?" he says, without even turning around to face our befuddled flat mate in the archway.

"Wha…I…I," John attempts to speak, "I was, um, just going to go to the…Sorry I interrupted."

"It's fine, John." I say, getting up and grabbing one of the plastic, take-away bags he's carrying. He gives me a sort of 'are you sure' look and I just laugh. "Don't worry about it," I say, patting his shoulder, "let's just eat."

"Yeah, yeah, sure." He says, shaking his head, "I'm going to get my food ready in, uh, kitchen." And he quickly dashes off.

"Why I do believe we've startled the good doctor." I tease; setting the bag I have down on the coffee table. As I dig out Sherlock's food and mine, my husband wraps his arms around my waist and places a soft kiss on the back of my head.

"I love you," he whispers into my hair. I turn my head so that my lips are inches away from his and we share a deep kiss.

"Good God, I need to move." We hear John teasingly groan from the kitchen, but we choose to ignore it. When our lips part, Sherlock picks up the food and nudges his head down the hall.

"Bedroom?" he asks, "I feel we should give John some privacy, don't you?" I blush and quickly follow my consulting detective.

_**Well, there you guys go!**_

_**I was surprised with the amount of interest already in this story so I wanted to post this chapter earlier than I had planed as sort of a 'thank you' gift to all you lovelies!**_

_**I will be getting more into the Reichenbach story in the next chapter and I do plan on sticking to the episode as close as I possibly can without messing up the original storyline. Plus, I've got a couple plot twists of my own to throw in there (hehehehe)**_

_**Once again, thanks to those who have commented, all you followers and all of those who have added this to their favorites.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	3. Chapter 3: Try Not to Get Worried

_Chapter 3: Try Not to Get Worried_

The day Sherlock was due to testify finally came and there was a sort of tense atmosphere around the flat. John has been telling him all week to just answer the lawyer's question and not get too carried away with the details; "Don't show off, Sherlock," he warned, "the last thing they need is to deal with your ego." Sherlock just nods and distracts himself with anything he can find: experiment, computer, violin, etc. He doesn't want to talk about it, let alone think about the whole ordeal.

Had I known any better, I would've guessed Sherlock didn't care about the trial. The truth was, though, that it was affecting him to his core. Sherlock is always on edge when it comes to Moriarty, and this time is no different. If anything, he's more stressed about it because he doesn't have any idea of what Moriarty's plan may be. For once, he's not in control and that bothers him. It makes me worried to see him like this, so cold and lost in his thoughts, but there's nothing I can do. He has to just figure things out for himself.

In the early hours of the morning, I feel Sherlock rise out of bed and then hear his bare feet patting against the hardwood floor. This is the third time he's gotten up since we went to bed around 10.

First at 11:30pm: I acted like I was still asleep as he paced back and forth at the foot of the bed, mumbling quiet nothingness to himself for about half an hour.

Second at 1am: he woke me up, quickly apologized and told me to go back to sleep because he was just going to the bathroom. He ended up going to the living room for about an hour.

I open my eyes just a tad just as Sherlock exits the bedroom. Sitting up slightly, I squint to see the green numbers on the bedside alarm clock: 4:00am, far too early for anyone to be awake, even Sherlock. With the doting wife in me kicking in, I climb out of bed and tiptoe out to the living room. Sherlock is sitting in his chair, hands in a prayer position under his chin and his eyes locked on the dimly lit fire in the fireplace; he must have lit one when he got up at 1. I can tell that he is deep in the mind palace, thinking about God only knows what, not really in this reality, but rather in a world of his own.

Careful not to startle him, I cautiously enter the room fully and go to his side. He doesn't acknowledge my presence; he just keeps staring at the dying embers. Slowly, I kneel down beside the chair and rest a hand on his thigh. Sherlock shutters at my touch and his eyes dart to meet my own.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't." he sighs, gently intertwining both my hand in his, "I was just…thinking."

"About?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

"You know exactly what about." Sherlock sighs and looks back at the fading fire.

I bite my lip and I reach up to gently stroke his cheek; "Do you want to talk about it, love?"

"What's there to talk about," he says, still looking at the fireplace, "I have to testify, end of story."

"Well, I just thought that since you were stressed about it…"

"Stressed? Have you ever known me to be stressed over something as minuscule as this? I'm fine."

"But I know that your really not."

Finally, Sherlock turns his head and lock his eyes with mine. He knows I'm right, but I can see that he really doesn't want to talk about it. I give him an understanding nod and lean in slightly so that I can place a soft kiss on his cheek. He turns his head so that my lips land on the corner of his mouth.

"Can…can I sit with you?" I whisper, "Unless you want to be alone for a bit."

"No, please," he replies, opening his arms to me, "I'd welcome it."

I crawl up into my husbands lap and curl up beside him, resting my head on his chest so that I can listen to his heartbeat. Sherlock wraps his arms around me, hooking one hand under my thighs so that he can hold me in place. As he places his other hand behind my neck, I feel a cold piece of metal come in contact with my skin. I'm startled for just a second but then relax when I realize what it is.

"You're wearing your ring." I say, fiddling with the collar of his blue dressing gown; a bright smile grows across my face.

"Of course I am," he replies, stroking my hair, "that's what husbands do don't they? Wear their wedding rings."

"You never wear it."

"Does that bother you?"

"No, I know why you don't: the press and what not, I understand" I say, "It doesn't matter to me. Whatever makes you happy, Sherlock." I let out a small yawn and nuzzle up closer to Sherlock. His chest vibrates with a low, baritone chuckle as he places a soft kiss on the top of my head.

"You should go back to bed," he whispers into my hair, "you have work this morning. Can't have you falling asleep at your desk, now can we."

"I'm fine." I reply, holding him close like a child clutching their favorite teddy bear, "Besides, I want to be with you right now. I'll stay awake." Sherlock's hold on me tightens slightly as he rests his cheek on top of my head.

"You don't have to," he whispers, gently beginning to stroke my back, "Just having you close is good enough for me." I blush and lift my head slightly to look him in the eyes. He looks down at me with a smile, but I can see the stress and worry in his gaze; I think, for the first time, he's nervous.

"You know, this whole trial thing, love," I say, trying to be comforting, "there is nothing to worry about. You're going to do great and they'll convict Moriarty, I know it."

Sherlock sighs then places a soft kiss on my forehead; "I…I just don't want to talk about it." He whispers, stroking my cheek, "I just need to think, mull over my own thoughts." He then looks at me like a child and my heart can't help but ache for him: "Will you stay with me?" he asks, "I know it's late and all but, having you near helps me to clear my mind."

"Of course," I reply, "What do you need me to do?"

A soft smile grows across his face and Sherlock cradles me close to his chest. "Just go to sleep," he coos, "my darling, darling, girl." I smile and allow my heavy eyelids to fall. I rest a hand over his heart and place a soft kiss on his bare chest. Sherlock takes in a deep breath and contently hums; "I love you, Elfie."

"I love you too, Sherlock."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The hour for Sherlock and John to leave unfortunately came sooner then I had wanted it too. I lean against Sherlock's desk by the front window; quietly sipping my coffee and watching my two best friends get ready to face the truly eventful day. John is more nervous than Sherlock, or at least is showing his nerves more. Sherlock seems very calm and collected for someone who only got a few moments of sleep the night before: stone faced, emotionless, pretty much his normal self. He catches my glance out of the corner of his eye and gives me an affirmative nod, as if to subconsciously tell me that everything was going to be fine and that there is no need for me to worry.

"Boys, there's a whole mess of people at the door." Mrs. Hudson says, coming up the stairs, "They've got cameras and microphones."

"It's the press, Mrs. Hudson," John sighs, "They'll be gone as soon as we leave."

"Oh, I do hope they clear out soon." She says, shaking her head in worry, "They are making such a scene."

Curious, I pull back the curtains slightly to view the crowd building around our doorstep. It's surprising really; this trial is the biggest news story, true, but I guess it never sank in that Sherlock was equally as big. My husband is the latest headline and his involvement with James Moriarty has made his mysterious story even juicer.

"The police car is here." I say, facing them again. John sighs heavily and gives Sherlock a nod. My husband just turns and looks at the mirror, straitening his black jacket. "Good luck," I say, and John smiles at me.

"It'll be fine. We'll see you when you get home from work," he says. He then turns his attention to Sherlock, "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Sherlock replies coldly. He then turns on his heel and heads to the door.  
"Sherlock, wait." I call out, setting my mug on the desk. Sherlock turns back around and I quickly run to him, practically jumping into his arms. He catches me in an embrace and plants a deep kiss on my cheek. I don't want him to go, but I know in my heart that he has to. He needs to go and be my brilliant detective and play his part to put that creep behind bars forever.

"Don't you worry about me, alright," he whispers in my ear, "Promise?"  
"Promise." I whisper in reply, "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"And I love you, Elfie Holmes."

We look at one another and exchange a quick kiss. He then straightens his back and heads downstairs with John trailing close behind. I watch them reach the bottom of the staircase and cautiously go to the front door.

"Ready?" John asks, taking a moment.

"Yes," Sherlock replies with a deep sigh.

John opens the door and the flat is immediately filled with the voices of reporters calling out Sherlock's name, begging for a quote or at least some word on what he's thinking. The door closes and all is silent again. I stand at the archway of the living room with Mrs. Hudson and let out a shaky breath.

"I don't feel good, Mrs. Hudson," I say, staring at the place where my husband had just stood moments ago, "Something just doesn't feel right about all this."

"Oh, cheer up dear," she says, placing a motherly hand on my shoulder, "You know that this whole thing will all be over before you know it. Sherlock will fix it; he always does."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The hours at worked dragged by; my boss, Janice, had given me a half-day because she knew I'd be too focused on the trial to work to my full potential. I was able to get a radio news station to play on my phone so that I could be updated with the trial as the day went on. I had hoped there would be some report on what Sherlock had said, but it was in vain; the reporters didn't know anymore than the general public. For it being the biggest headline in ages, the court case of James Moriarty sure is very hush-hush. The clock finally struck 2:30 and I flew out of my office faster than the speed of light. I need to get home. I need to know how it went. I need to see Sherlock.

Upon reaching 221b, I sprint up the stairs in hope that Sherlock and John were back; they had to be by now. I give off a sigh of relief when I reach the living room archway and hear the two of them bickering, as is their natural way:

"It's my face." Sherlock says in annoyance

"Yes, and it's doing a thing. You're doing a 'we both know what's really going on here' face." John rebuttals

"Well, we do."

"No. _I_ don't, which is why I find 'The Face' so annoying."

"What about Sherlock's face?" I tease, entering the room fully. John chuckles and gives me a small wave. Sherlock, on the other hand, rolls his eyes and starts to pace the room.

"If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them." He says, "If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now is because he _chose_ to be there. Somehow this is part of his scheme."

"So, I'm assuming it went well." I say, taking a seat on the couch.

"Yeah, sure." John says with a mixture of sarcasm and annoyance in his voice, "if you call your husband here being held in contempt and having to spend the rest of the trial in a jail cell 'going well', then yes I say it did."

"Sherlock, what did you do?" I ask with a roll of my eyes, "John told you not to show off."

"I wasn't showing off, the barrister was an idiot." Sherlock snaps, "She was asking all the wrong questions. Anyways, that's not important right now. What is important is what does Moriarty have planed. He was far too calm for someone who's on trial for his or her life and, as I stated before, he _wanted_ to be caught. There is something bigger afoot, something I'm missing." He runs his hands through his curls violently then plops down beside me on the couch; "I'm annoyed with the world." He grumbles, resting his head in my lap.

"Annoyed with the world or with Jim Moriarty?" I ask, gently massaging temples-a weakness of his I have discovered while being his lover. Sherlock delightfully hums and temples his hands under his chin.

"Both." He replies, closing his eyes, "I'm tired. John, go make tea."

"You go make it," John replies, getting up, "I'm going out."

"On a date? Do tell the details." I say, giving John a friendly wink. John chuckles and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"No, just with Stamford." He replies, "Sorry to disappoint."

"Don't stay out too late," Sherlock says, half awake and half completely relaxed, "I need you to go watch the trial tomorrow."

"Why can't you go yourself?" John asks,

"They'll be presenting the defense tomorrow and I need my best man to watch Moriarty's movements."

"Once again; why can't you go yourself?"

"Held in contempt today, remember? It would be in bad taste to show up in the court room."

John rolls his eyes and heads to the door; "Alright, whatever. I'll see you two tomorrow then."

"Hmm, not a date, but you don't plan on coming home tonight." I tease, "Interesting, Dr. Watson, very interesting."  
"Please, Fee, one deducing Holmes is enough." John playfully replies. I laugh and give him a small nod as he heads to his own bedroom to get changed.

"How was work?" Sherlock asks, relaxing his arms so that one is draped across his stomach and the other is dangling off the edge of the couch.

"Oh, hello, I thought you'd dozed off." I say, tangling my fingers through his curls, "You were up most of the night."

"So were you," he chuckles, "which relates back to my question: how was work?"

"Uh, I didn't get much done." I say, "It's been slow anyway and I was focused on other things. Janice gave me the rest of the week off, though."

"Why?" he presses me to explain.

"Surely even you can deduce that." I tease. Sherlock chuckles and takes one of my hands into his own. He examines my wedding ring with a small smile then places a soft kiss on my knuckles.

"I told you not to worry about me," he says, intertwining his fingers with mine.

"I know, but I can't help it." I reply, "Sorry that I care too much."

"You always have." He says contently, "Even before you and I became…us."

"I've never heard you refer to our relationship as 'us' before, Sherlock."

"Well, what else am I suppose to call it? You and I are an 'us', Elfie; there is always one with the other." Sherlock then looks up at me with a smile: "and there always will be."

"If I didn't know any better, I would say you've become sentimental Mr. Holmes," I tease, placing a kiss on his forehead.

"No, never," He mumbles, closing his eyes again and letting out a sigh of relief, "I'm just…tired." I chuckle at Sherlock's childlike behavior; he always gets like a toddler when he's exhausted and I can't help but find it extremely attractive. Within moments, Sherlock's breathing becomes relaxed and rhythmic. Careful not to wake him, I lift his head off my lap and slowly rise from the couch. I rest his head back down on the cushions and slowly slip his black blazer off of him.

"Sleep well," I whisper, leaning in and kissing his cheek, "I'll see you in the morning." Sherlock mumbles an incoherent reply and turns on his side so that his back is to me. As I straighten out the sleeves of Sherlock's blazer, a small business card falls out onto the floor. I pick it up and read over the name in bold type:

"Kitty Riley." I read aloud,

"Not important," Sherlock suddenly grumbles, brushing a hand through the air, "just a stupid…person. Toss it."

"Who is she?" I ask, genuinely curious, "A reporter?"

"Yes." He moans, "She stalked me into the bathroom."

"Ah, I see." I say with a laugh, "She wanted to get the inside scoop on you, I'm assuming. The whole 'who is Sherlock Holmes?' kind of thing?"  
"I'm going back to sleep," he mumbles, curling up into a ball, "G'night."

I chuckle and kiss his cheek again; "Sleep well, honey," I say, heading down the hall to the bathroom. I take another quick look at the business card and shrug: "She must be desperate if she thinks she'll get Sherlock to talk to her," I say to myself, "Really, really desperate."

_**Hello!  
So I didn't quiet know how to end this one, so I do apologize if it seems a bit unfinished or off. But we are getting into the beginning of the episode and I have some plans on how to bring Elfie into it all.**_

_**Thank you for all the wonderful responses-truly, they help the writing process- and the continued support. I enjoy writing these stories and I hope you all enjoy reading them.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	4. Chapter 4: Impossible

_Chapter 4: Impossible_

'_I'm bored. When will you be home? -SH'_

'_I'm off at 5–EH'_

'_Get off earlier. I want to be with you-SH'_

'_Come meet me when I'm off if you miss me that much-EH'_

'_That's still 3 hours away. What am I suppose to do until then? –SH'_

'_It's been 5 minutes. Why didn't you reply? –SH'_

'_My lunch is over. I have to get back to work-EH'_

'_Dull-SH'_

'_Your such a child sometimes-EH'_

'_I love you too-SH'_

I chuckle at the last text and stuff my phone back into my desk drawer. Despite my boss' strongest suggestions (plus giving me the whole week off intentionally), I came in to the office today. I can't stay at the flat, wallowing in my thoughts about Moriarty. I will admit though, leaving Sherlock home alone with no case on hand was a bad idea. I don't understand why he didn't just go with John to watch the defense; I'm sure Moriarty had some elaborate scheme in that.

Everyone here at the museum has been keeping up the trial; the small TV in the break room is always turned to the news channel and I've been listening to the radio coverage on my phone during my lunch break. True, my honest source of information is Sherlock: he knows what Moriarty is up too and can understand that man's twisted thoughts better then anyone. Maybe that's why he didn't go with John today; maybe he's already figured out what Moriarty has in store for the prosecution.

Trying not to focus too much on the trial, I flip through the pages of my textbook and continue to type up my new lecture: Argentine governments…woo hoo. The clock ticks by and I'm completely involved in my work; my very own mind palace, one could say. Suddenly, there is a quick knock at my door:

"It's open," I say, typing up my last paragraph. The door creeks open and my boss, Janice, sticks her head in.

"Elfie," she says, her voice very serious. Caught a bit off guard by her tone, I lift my head from my work and look at her. She seems very stressed and worried; has something happened?

"Janice, what's up?" I ask, "Is there something wrong?"

"Come and look at the telly," she says with a heavy sigh, "I think you need to see this." Furrowing my brow in confusion, I rise from my desk and follow her to the break room. My coworkers are staring at the screen in shock as I enter the break room: some shaking their heads in disbelief, others mumbling things like _'This isn't right'_ and _'I don't understand it'_. Janice looks at me then nudges her head toward the screen. I look and I can feel the color leave my face as I read the bold headline:

"_**Verdict in Old Bailey Trial: James Moriarty found NOT GUILTY"**_

Not guilty.

James Moriarty is not guilty.

I shake my head in disbelief and grab hold of the back of a chair to steady myself. This can't be right? How? How the hell did the jury not convict him? All the evidence was pointing to him and he was waiting at the crime scene for goodness sake. Are these people stupid? This can't be happening right now.

"Elfie," Janice says, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, "if…if you need to go home, that is completely okay. I can get someone else to finish the Argentine lecture."

"I…I have to make a phone call." I stutter, quickly turning on my heel and heading back to my office. I have to call Sherlock; he must know what is going on. He must understand why the jury wouldn't convict Moriarty. I open my top desk drawer and take out my phone. To my surprise, there is a text message waiting for me:

_ 'I know the verdict; John called and told me. Don't panic, I'm fine. Just stay at work–SH'_

I read over the text again and again until I decide to just press the call button and tell him that I'm coming home whether he likes it or not. Before I think about what I'm going to say, Sherlock picks up much quicker than I expected:

"I said not to panic," he says in his monotone way.

"I'm not panicking, I'm just worried about you." I say, trying my best to sound calm, "What happened?"

"How should I know? I wasn't there." He replies, coldly, "If you want an eyewitness account, I suggest you call John."  
"Sherlock, don't be harsh." I say, feeling a bit hurt, "Listen, Janice is letting me off early. I'll be home in about…"

"That won't be necessary," he quickly says, taking me by surprise, "You need to stay at work."

"Why? What if Moriarty comes for you?"

"Then I will handle it." He says with an icy sting to his voice, "As I told you when this whole thing began, I don't want you any where near Moriarty. If his intention is to find me right now, which I suppose it is, then let him. In fact, I welcome it. I'm through playing this game, I want it to be over with."

"So do I Sherlock, but right now, you're scaring me." I say, "I don't want you to get hurt or have Moriarty make some sort of threat. Tell me I'm over reacting, Sherlock, please. Tell me your going to be okay."

It's quiet on his end and I bite my lower lip; what's he thinking? Does he have a plan? He needs to just talk to me.

"Stay at work." He demands.

"But…"

"Please just do as I ask." He says, "Just…I'll see you later."

Before I can get in another word, Sherlock hangs up. I toss my phone back into the drawer and sigh heavily. I fall back into my office chair and run my hands through my hair: How? How could Moriarty be allowed to walk free? What the hell is going on? Sherlock must know something and he's just not telling me. He says he doesn't want to worry me, but I can't help but be worried. I don't want the love of my life to be harmed by that maniac.

Is that so much to ask?

Five o'clock finally arrives and I run out to the steps of the museum faster then the speed of light. I catch a cab and am quickly on my back home to Baker Street. When I reach 221b, I run upstairs in hopes that Sherlock is in the living room thinking or experimenting or anything really. I just want to see him.

"Sherlock," I call as I reach the top step, "Sherlock, honey, are you in?"

"He's in the bedroom."

I quickly turn my head to see John, sitting in his chair reading the paper. "Is he alright?" I ask but John just shrugs.

"I'm not sure," he says, "When I got home, all he told me was that Moriarty had been here and that…"

"Moriarty was here?" I exclaim, "At the flat? Oh my God, this can't be real. What did he say? Did he threaten Sherlock? Did something happen?"

"Fee, calm down and breathe," John says, setting down his paper, "Sherlock is fine; he and Moriarty, apparently, just talked."

"Talked? About what?"

"I don't know, but Sherlock said that he's handling it. I think, Fee we should just take his word for it and move on."

"Move on? John, Moriarty is crazy. God only knows what he's going to do next! He could very well harm Sherlock and I…I don't want that to happen."

I give off a heavy sigh and plop down in the chair opposite John, resting my elbows on my knees and hiding my face in my hands. Carefully, John leans forward and places a firm hand on my shoulder; "I don't either," he says in his comforting way, "but I trust him. I think, this time, we should just let him do his own thing and not get too involved. Moriarty has always been Sherlock's biggest problem; Let him solve it and it will all be over before we know it."

I raise my head to look at John and I give him a small smile. He's right; he's always right. "What happened at the trial, John?" I ask, running my hands through my hair, "I…I need to know."

"There was no defense," he explains with a heavy sigh, "Moriarty just stood there and the jury only took 8 minutes to decide."

"He rigged it, the bastard." I say under my breath, "Then what happened?"

"The press had a field day, Moriarty walk out a free man," John sighs, "I called Sherlock right away, but he just hung up on me."

"At least he was blunt with you," I say with a scoff, "When I called him, he was…well, to be honest, he was being a dick."

"Whoa there," John says with a chuckle, "That was unexpected. I mean, he told me you would be upset with him, but wow. I don't think I've ever heard you call him anything other than 'love' or 'honey' before. Dick is a bit of a change." I look at John and we both laugh.

"I'm sorry, it's been a stressful day." I say, running my fingers through my hair. John just nods and gives me a brotherly smile. He truly is the best friend anyone could ask for; He will listen to you moan and groan about your troubles and he'll always have the perfect thing to say. Not everyone in the world has a John Watson, and I'm beyond grateful for mine.

"You should go see Sherlock," John says, nudging his head toward the hall, "He won't say it, of course, but…He needs some comfort right now."

I nod and give John a warm hug: "Thanks for letting me scream."

"Anytime." He replies with a chuckle.

I then rise from the chair and head toward the bedroom. I can see the light shining from under the door, but there's no noise coming from inside. Cautiously, I knock. "It's your bedroom too, there's no need to knock." Comes the deep reply from within and I roll my eyes: He sounds like himself so he must be okay.

I slowly turn the knob and enter the dimly lit bedroom. Sherlock is lying on his back, on top of the bed sheets, dressed in only his pajama bottoms, reading a book. I close the door behind me and cautiously take a seat next to his legs.

"I'm not a bomb," he says with a hint of annoyance in his voice, "you don't have to tiptoe around me."

"Sorry," I say, removing my shoes, "I…I thought you'd still be upset and I didn't want to set you off."

"What would give you that impression?" he asks, slowly turning a page.

"Your reading fiction," I say, "You hate fiction. You only read it when you're frustrated with the world. Simple deduction, really."

Sherlock sets the book down on his chest and looks at me with a proud smirk: "I've taught you well." He says and I can't help but smile. He smiles back but then returns his attention to his book: "Oh, by the way, your cup is on the side table; your tea is getting cold. We're out of milk, so you'll have to drink it straight."

"My what?" I ask, a bit confused

Sherlock nudges his head to the right and I notice a cup of tea waiting on a saucer on the bedside table. I look back at my husband and then back at the tea; this is odd. He never makes tea, not even when it's just him and John.

"So, Mr. Holmes, tell me," I inquire, picking up the cup and taking a sip, "Are you trying to butter me up for something?"

"Is that what I'm suppose to do after a fight," he asks, "_'butter you up'_?"

The mood suddenly shifts toward the negative and its silent between us. _'How do I reply to that?' _I think,_ 'True, I understand his harshness, but the argument still stings.'_

"Would you call it a fight?" I ask, setting the cup down again.

"Yes, because I shouted at you and I didn't mean it." He says, still not looking at me, "I was just…thinking."

"You're always thinking," I say, rubbing my hand up and down his leg, "what difference does it make if you snapped at me today?"

"As you just stated, I was being a…dick." Sherlock replies. I sheepishly look down at my feet: Of course he overheard John and I just now, he's Sherlock.

Sherlock sets the book down again and sits up, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in close; "I didn't mean to upset you," he goes on, gently turning my head so that we are eye to eye, "I just didn't want to put you in any danger. I thought that if you had come home while Moriarty was here, he would bring some sort of harm to you. You must understand that I was protecting you."

"I do," I say, stroking Sherlock's cheek, "But…what did he say to you? What on Earth did you talk about?"

Sherlock becomes very stern as he cups my face in his hands: "Elfie, you must listen to me," he says, sounding very concerned, " I don't know when, nor do I know how, but things are going to drastically change. Moriarty has made it clear to me that he will stop at nothing to see me fall and I-For the first time in my life, Elfie, I don't know what's going to happen. I can't predict his movements or where he's going to be next. But this is one thing Im absolutely sure of: I can't loose you. I don't' care what happens to me, just as long as I keep you safe. But you're going to have to trust me."

"Sherlock, honey, I trust you with my life, you know that." I say, nuzzling my forehead against his, "I'm here for you and I'm always going to be. Nothing is going to separate us. You said it yourself, we're an 'us': Whatever Moriarty has planed, no matter how difficult, I'm going to be by your side. I promise you that."

Sherlock sighs heavily and wraps his arms around me in a tight embrace. "I love you, Elfie Marie Holmes." He whispers into my ear, "So very much."

"I love you too, Sherlock." I reply, holding him in return, "And I'm glad that this stupid trial is over."

"As am I, my darling girl, as am I."

_*Two Months Later*_

I grip onto the porcelain sink for dear life and squeeze my eyes shut. My whole world is spinning, causing me to feel dizzy and exhausted. Another wave of nausea hits me and I heave into the sink. Luckily nothing comes out, but that does no good for my gnawing headache. I slowly lift my head and look at myself in the mirror; my face is pale and my eyes look tired.

Being sick is absolute hell.

I splash some water onto my face and take in slow deep breaths. Finding some balance, I let go of the sink and head out of the bathroom. I feel warm, but not in the sense of a fever. It's more like an uncomfortable heat, annoyance as oppose to a symptom. Readjusting my pajama shorts and tank top, I throw on Sherlock's blue dressing gown and, taking my very sweet time, manage to walk down the hall to the living room. I'll feel cooler out there, surely.

Sherlock is seated at his desk, typing away about some new experiment of his. Smiling meekly, I shuffle over to him and place a kiss on the top of his messy mop of curls.

"Oh, hello," he says, turning is head to see me over his shoulder, "I thought you'd still be in bed."

"It was lonely in there...and warm." I reply with a groan.

"Not much I can do about the weather, love," he says, returning to his typing, "But go lay on the couch, I'll keep you company."

"Your working."

"So?"

"That's not keeping my company. That's just being in the same room as me."

"Isn't that the definition of company?" Sherlock looks at me with a half mouth smirk and opens his arms to me: "Come here." He coos and I gladly cuddle up into his lap.

"I don't want to get you sick," I mumble, fiddling with his shirt collar.

"I don't care," He replies, kissing the top of my head. I smile and rest my head on his shoulder. Just as I get comfortable, Sherlock's phone goes off.

"Who is it?" I yawn, "Lestrade?"

"Yes. He's probably going to drag me off to some crime scene," He says, digging out his phone from his jacket pocket, "If that's the case then, darling, I suggest you go back to sleep or at least lie down until John gets home. One of the benefits of living with a doctor, he's always on call."

I let out a small chuckle but quickly grab my stomach. I sprint to the kitchen and reach the bin just as I vomit. The dizziness returns, accompanied by my aching joints. God, this is awful. I never get sick so what is this? Another hit of nausea rears its head and I latch onto the sides of the bin. Fortunately, Sherlock comes up behind me and holds my hair back away from my face.

"Alright, come on then," Sherlock says, rubbing my back, "back to bed with you, Mrs. Holmes."

"I'm fine," I say, my head still in the bin, "Really. Just give me…Oh, Christ." I heave again and let out an agitated moan. The next thing I know, Sherlock lifts me up into his arms: one hooked under my knees and the other latched around my back. Feeling too much like crap to protest, I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouts, "Can you come up a minute?" I close my eyes and nuzzle my head under his chin. I hear Mrs. Hudson's heels against the hardwood floor, but I don't look up to see her. Right now, I'm perfectly fine cuddled up in Sherlock's arms.

"Oh, poor dear. She still doesn't feel any better?" I hear her say as she sets a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"Unfortunately, no." Sherlock replies, "Mrs. Hudson, would you be so kind as to allow Elfie to rest down at your flat? Lestrade is on his way and it's much cooler on your couch. She was complaining about feeling warm."

"Of course, of course, go right ahead." She says. The next thing I know, Sherlock is carrying me down the stairs and into Mrs. Hudson's flat; he's right, it is much cooler in here. He sets me down on the couch and sets a hand on my forehead.

"No fever, that's good," he whispers, running his fingers through my hair, "Probably the flu, mild case of course. Give it 24 hours and this should pass."

"God I hope so," I groan, "I have to get back to work soon." Sherlock smiles at me and kisses my cheek.

"Rest now, love," he whispers, "I'll be back shortly." I nod and allow myself to fall in a comforting sleep. I don't know how long I was out, but I was vaguely aware of Sherlock coming back, kissing me on the forehead, whispering 'be back shortly' and then dashing off at one point. When I do fully wake up, Mrs. Hudson is entering her living room with a tray of tea.

"You look better already, Elfie," she says, setting the tray down on the coffee table, "maybe all you needed was a good rest."

Coming to my senses, I run my hands through my oily strands of hair and sit up: "Where did Sherlock go?" I ask with a yawn.

"On a case, dear," she replies, "him and John left with the police about an hour ago. They went to some boarding school or something, I'm not sure which one. Sherlock wanted to move you back upstairs but I said that it was perfectly fine if you stayed down here; no need for him to carry you all the way back up."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson," I grumble, "I didn't mean to just crash on your couch like that."

"Oh no, no, no, it's perfectly fine." She says in her motherly way, "You know, your husband use to do the same thing when he was sick. When I first met him, he was always ill. He would always make such a fuss, saying that he was perfectly fine when he could even walk, and I'd make sure he'd sleep on my sofa until he sobered up. Sherlock would plop right down and sleep for ages."

"Goodness, he must have been a wreck," I say, carefully pouring myself a cup of tea, "I've never known him to just fall asleep like that."

"Well, you know, he lead a different life then." Mrs. Hudson says, sitting down beside me, "but enough about that. How are you feeling?"  
"Um, better I guess," I say, "I'm not as nauseous or dizzy, but that's what happened yesterday."

"Yesterday?" she asks, "Sherlock said that you had just become sick."

"It wasn't as bad as it was today, I was able to hide it. Well, John figured out that I wasn't feeling well but I told him it was nothing." I explain, sipping my tea, "To be honest, this has been going on for about a week now." The tea suddenly has a bitter taste in my mouth and I squish up my lips. I've never had tea like this before; must be whatever brand Mrs. Hudson has. Politely, I set my cup back down on its saucer.

"And was it like this?" Mrs. Hudson inquires, sounding more like a concerned mother now, "The sickness; did it just come and go?"

"Yes," I say, "I have a constant feeling of exhaustion and the body aches, then comes the throwing up. And…" I suddenly become a tad embarrassed. There is one thing that I haven't told Sherlock or John about, "Can I be honest with you, Mrs. Hudson?" I ask in a whisper

"Of course, dear." She says, taking my hand into hers, "Anything."

"I'm…I'm late." I meekly admit, "You know, for my…you know. I feel foolish for saying it, Mrs. Hudson, but…well…I don't know how else to feel about it"

Mrs. Hudson nods and gently taps my hand: "My dear," she says, with a smile, "this sickness and everything must be connected, you know."

"Well, yes, I thought about that. But how?" I ask,

"There is one thing I can think of, dear." She says with a smile, "And putting the pieces together, I can see no other reason for why you're feeling this way." I open my mouth to speak but then quickly realize what she's really saying. The nausea, the dizziness, the aches, and the distaste, all of it: It makes sense now. I'm not sick, I'm…no. No I can't be. I mean, it is perfectly possible, but…No. No way. I look at Mrs. Hudson with a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

She's right; she has to be.

It's the only logical explanation.

Oh God.

"Mrs. Hudson," I say in a whisper, "Am I…I mean, I think I'm…Oh my god."

"Oh, Elfie," she says, setting a comforting hand on my cheek, "you're going to have a baby."

_**Hello, hello, hello!**_

_**So…plot twist much? **___

_**I have plans for how I'm going to incorporate the pregnancy into the original Reichenbach plot, but I don't want to flip the episode entirely. I feel like that is unfair to the writers. I have read similar story arcs, but rest assured I have my own plot brewing.**_

_**Thanks as always for all the follow, favorites and reviews. They really do help me keep going with the writing process.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	5. Chapter 5: Make Believe

_Chapter 5: Make Believe_

Pregnant.

I, Elfie Marie Holmes, am with child.

Not just any child; Sherlock Holmes' child.

Gazing out the cab window, I nervously bite my nails and loose myself in my thoughts. After a good cry of tears of happiness and shock with Mrs. Hudson, I had gone back up to my own flat and decided to take an official test. I had bought some behind Sherlock's back not to long after we came back from our honeymoon; that's a normal thing for a newlywed to buy right? Of course, the result was positive, but part of me wanted to take another test…then another…then another.

Its inevitable: I'm expecting my first child.

After shedding a few more tears, I decided that I was feeling well enough to venture out and find my flat mates. John had texted me a while ago, saying that he and Sherlock were one their way Scotland Yard and not to wait up because they had no idea when they'd be back; missing children, how heartbreaking. I quickly got dressed and rushed out of the flat. _'John's a doctor,' _I tell myself,_ 'he can confirm this.'_ But then I think: Did he already know? He did know that I was ill, but did he realize that it was morning sickness? And if he did, why didn't he tell me?

God, my brain is just a mess of thoughts right now.

"Here we are, miss." The cabbie says as we pull up along the curb. I pay him then dash inside the building. I've become more aware of the layout of New Scotland Yard so I see myself up to Lestrade's office. In the lift, I lean back against the back wall and take in a deep breath: What am I going to tell Sherlock?

He's been so on edge lately with this whole Moriarty thing that I really don't know how he's going to react to this news: Will he be happy? Will he be upset? Maybe he won't even register what I'm saying, brush it aside like it's nothing. No, even Sherlock Holmes has to understand how huge this is. Won't he?

The lift doors open and I cautiously step out. The homicide division is in a complete uproar; officers are running about piecing together information, exchanging file and working at a hundred miles an hour. Immediately, I feel out of place and in the way.

"Oi, you can't just come up here."

I immediately recognize the annoying voice of Sgt. Sally Donovan and am greatly displeased to see her coming toward me: "Donovan, always a pleasure." I say with a fake smile.

"What do you want?" she hisses, folding her arms across her chest, "We've got a major case on our hands at the moment and don't have time for anything else."

"I've always been so impressed with your kindness, Donovan, truly," I quip back, "I'm here to see Sherlock."

Donovan rolls her eyes in annoyance and nudges her head to the side. Lestrade and John are standing amongst the madness waiting for Sherlock to say something. I can tell from here that my husband is studying something on his phone, deep in that mind palace of his. God, he's so handsome when he's deducing. _'Focus on the task, Elfie! Don't get side tracked!'_

I give Donovan a quick nod and quickly walk toward the trio. "Don't add any trouble," she warns, "Freak's made this whole kidnapping more ridiculous then it needs to be."

I ignore her insult to my husband and roll my eyes; She's such a child. When I am a few feet away from them, John turns his head and spots me: "Fee!" he says in disbelief. Sherlock doesn't even notice me; too locked away in his work.

"Ah, the Mrs.!" Lestrade says in a comforting way, "I thought Sherlock's have you out searching along with his 'network' what ever that is."

"Um, what?" I ask.

"The location of the kidnapped children," John explains, "Sherlock's developed an idea of where they might be and he's got his people out there looking."

"Looking for what exactly?" I ask, becoming interested.

"Disused sweets factory," Lestrade replies. I look at him in confusion but he just shrugs and gives me his don't-ask-me-ask-Sherlock-look.

"Well, it's all a bit complicated," John adds in, giving me a concerned look, "but what I want to know is what your doing down here? Aren't you supposed to be resting?"

"I'm…I'm better now," I reply, suddenly getting a lump in my throat, "I, um, I needed to talk with-I mean, I figured out what was wrong, but…No, I, um."

"You alright?" Lestrade asks, registering the nervousness in my voice.

"Um, yeah, I'm fine." I reply, "So sorry to interrupt, but…Can I borrow John for a second?" I quickly grab the startled John Watson by the elbow and pull him aside; "I need to talk to you." I quickly whisper.

"Um, Fee, we're on a case." He whispers back, "Can it wait?"

"Not really, no." I reply, "I…I need your expertise. You know as a medical professional."  
"And you couldn't text me because…"

"John, seriously, this is important. Do you think I'd come all the way down here and interrupt a case if it wasn't?"

John shakes his head and looks me in the eye. He then realizes that this is something majorly important: "What's going on, Fee?" he asks, sounding more like a worried friend than a doctor.

"I…I found out why I've been feeling…this way," I say with a heavy sigh. Suddenly, my eyes begin to well up with tears again. God, why is this so hard to say? I need to just say it!

"Fee? Talk to me," John says, placing a hand on my shoulder, "What is it?"

"John, I…I think I'm pregnant."

I can see the color leave John's cheeks and his eyes grow wide with surprise. It's not a displeased surprise, but rather an unexpected one; "Oh, God," he manages to breathe out, "Are…are you sure?"

I nod and bite my lower lip, fighting back the tears that have returned to my eyes: "John what am I going to do?" I whimper.

"Addlestone." Sherlock suddenly declares, causing John and I turn to turn our heads back toward him.

"What?" Lestrade asks, in confusion.

"There's a mile of disused factories between the river and the park." Sherlock explains, stuffing his phone back in his pocket, "It matches everything." He then turns on his heel to exit but stops abruptly when he sees John and I: "Oh, Elfie." he says, half surprised and half confused, "You're here…and crying. Why are you crying?"

"I…I, um…" I struggle to find the right words to say, but it doesn't matter.

"No time," Sherlock interrupts, "we must get a move on. Guess your coming with us." He quickly takes me by the hand and whisks me along toward the exit. I look back at John, who is on our heels, in disbelief.

"Don't tell him yet." He mouths to me with a reassuring nod. I nod back; He's right. It's better to break the news once I'm absolutely sure and Sherlock's not on the case.

"Right, come on." I hear Lestrade call out to his team, "Come on!"

In the back of a police car, Sherlock fills me in on the case: Two children, boy and girl, kidnapped from their boarding school for reasons yet to be seen, most likely because they are the children of the US Ambassador. Through various tests at the lab, Sherlock was able to trace the location of where they are being held via the kidnappers shoe print (Seriously, my husband's genius never ceases to amaze me). But the most chilling thing he tells me though is that he suspects this to be the handy work of Moriarty.

"How?" I ask, "How do you know?"

"Fairytales, Elfie," he says, showing me a picture of a children's fairytale book, "There was a package of breadcrumbs sent to our flat and a glycerol molecule was a result of one of the test. Glycerol is found, of course, in…"

"The making of chocolate." I finish for, trying to piece together the puzzle in my own head.  
"Correct. Now, Moriarty alluded to fairytales during his visit after the trial. Missing brother and sister, breadcrumbs, chocolate, a book of Grimm Fairytales: sound related to you?"

"Hansel and Gretel."

"Exactly."

"So Moriarty takes these two kids to an abandoned sweets factory, but leaves clues for you to figure it all out. That doesn't make any sense? Why would he do that?"

Sherlock's gaze suddenly changes from case mode to a much softer look; "Asking the right questions, now, darling," he says with a small smile, "I knew you had a knack for this sort of thing. Part of the reason I fell so madly in love with you."

He then pulls me in close and places a soft kiss on the top of my head. I smile back at him and blush; God, I love this man. Reality quickly comes back to me; I have to tell him I'm carrying his child. No, not yet. I'll wait until we are home and John can give me his medical opinion. Yeah, that's smarter. Isn't it?

The caravan of police cars suddenly stops in front of a worn down warehouse. Sherlock, John and I climb out of the back of ours and quickly group up with the small search party getting ready to enter the building.

"Now are you sure of this?" Lestrade asks Sherlock in a low voice,

"When have I ever been wrong?" Sherlock replies, grabbing three flashlights from the inspector, "You brought me in on this case, so trust my judgment." Lestrade sighs heavily then turns to address his team.

"Here," Sherlock says handing me a flashlight, "stay close to me, alright?"

"Sherlock, wait," John says, putting up a defensive hand, "you don't expect Elfie to go in there with us, do you?"

"Of course," he replies, giving John a raised eyebrow look, "she's here, isn't she, and she is more than capable to assist the search. Honestly, John, sometimes you don't give my wife enough credit."

"No, no, I'm not saying that." John says, "I'm…I'm just wondering if it's really safe."

It clicks in my brain what he really means: Pregnant women shouldn't be helping out on search and rescues in abandoned warehouses. "I'll be fine," I assure John, setting a hand on his elbow, "really." The doctor gives me a questioning look but I just nod.

"There, see! She's fine." Sherlock says, heading inside the warehouse with the search party, "Now, come on." John and I exchange a quick look, and then follow him inside. The warehouse is dark and dank, like something you'd see in a horror film. I wouldn't be surprised if this place was haunted, honestly. Lestrade directs the search party to a more remote part of the building while Sherlock, John and I head a different way. Feeling a chill run up my spine, I take Sherlock's hand into my own.

"Scared?" he whispers in a teasing way.

"Shut up." I whisper back, elbowing him in the side. Sherlock chuckles and gives my hand a comforting squeeze.

"Can you two not flirt right now?" John asks, "Kidnapped children, remember?" We both nod and continue to look around. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock notices a candle on the ground. He rushes over to it, dragging me along, and kneels down to touch the wick.

"This was alight moments ago," he says, half to himself. He then calls out: "There still here!"

"Are they alive?" I ask, but Sherlock quickly turns back to the candle.

"Check back near the door. See if there's a trial" he whispers, studying the miscellaneous wrappers around the candle. I quickly nod and head back toward the entrance. John gives me a quick concerned glance but I nod to him reassuringly.

"I'm okay." I whisper walking past him, "I'm being careful."

As I reach the location of the other half of the search party, Donovan catches me in the light of her flashlight; "He brought you along, then?" she asks sarcastically, "Perfect. The Freak wanted some company on the case."

"Really? Can you not, right now?" I hiss, "He's helping you out, isn't he? Lay off."

She rolls her eyes and continues to look around. I decide to stay near her, just in case I get lost wandering on my own. "So, I heard Lestrade call you 'Mrs.'" Donovan says, still searching.

"Are you attempting to make friendly conversation?" I ask, rather annoyed, "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't."

"It's true then?" she goes on, ignoring my statement, "You and Sherlock Holmes got hitched."

"Yes," I say with a heavy sigh, "does that bother you?"

"No, it's just…blimey." She says, "I never thought he'd ever settle down. How'd you convince him to go through with it?"

"I didn't. He asked me, just like any other couple."

Donovan nods then changes her tone to a bit more serious; "He trusts you then; you and John Watson. You two are the closest people to him and that's saying a lot. Tells you all of his secrets, I bet: The _real_ Sherlock Holmes."

"What are you getting at?" I ask, giving her a cold glare.

She just shrugs and nudges her flashlight to the right; "Mind checking over there for me?" she asks and I quickly agree. God she gets on my last nerve.

As I continue to look around, my legs start to ache much like they did this morning. My stomach starts to turn and I think I'm going to be sick again…great, just great. Gripping my middle, I turn around and quickly head back the way I came. Suddenly, I notice a shadow out of the corner of my eye. It's small and petite…like a child. I cautiously go towards it and breathe a sigh of relief when I see the back of a little girl. Another small body is lying beside her; that must be the brother. He's so still. Jesus Christ, no.

I notice another flashlight is shining on the girl and I look up to see who it is. Donovan is standing parallel to me and for a split second she gives me a reassuring smile. "Over here!" she calls out to Lestrade and then motions for me to kneel down beside the children with her. I do so and much to my surprise the little girl doesn't jump back. She just stares at Donovan and me with wide eyes; She's in shock, the poor thing. My eyes then turn to her brother, lying so still in her lap. I gently place two fingers on his neck.

There's a pulse.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Back at the Yard, I'm waiting with Sherlock and John outside of the interrogation room. Sherlock is pacing back and forth, anxious to get in the room and ask the girl his own questions.

"Will you relax?" I ask, leaning back against the wall, "You're making me dizzy."

"She knows something. The girl knows something." He mutters to himself, "She must know what Moriarty had planed."

"Sherlock, she's a child and she's in shock," John says from his chair, "You can't go in there and interrogate her. Poor thing is probably so confused right now. Can't imagine what kind of thoughts she's having right now."

"She was so calm when we found her," I add in, "Almost catatonic."

"Moriarty must not have been present," Sherlock says, completely ignoring John and I, "he more or less dropped them off at the warehouse then left them there to die. Ah, but he didn't drop them off, someone else did. The man doesn't like getting his hands dirty, he'd never directly involve himself."

A little annoyed by his constant pacing like a mad man, I gently take a hold of Sherlock's shoulders and turn him to face me. He stops and stares at me in confusion; "Problem?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply, "Your pacing is bugging me and I think you need to stop." Sherlock opens his mouth to rebuttal but then stops. He takes in a deep breath and takes my hands into his own.

"I'm sorry," he says, studying my wedding band.

"No need to apologize." I reply, "Just take a deep breath, okay? You can't just barge in there and scare the girl. She's frightened, confused, worried…Well lets put it this way, she's just a shaken little girl."

"But what does that matter?" Sherlock asks, looking me in the eyes, "She's a victim and the key to getting to Moriarty. Just because she's a child, that doesn't mean she deserves special treatment."

"Jesus, do you hear yourself?" John says in disbelief, "She almost died and her brother is in hospital. Have a heart."

"Having a heart won't make this problem go by any quicker," Sherlock quips back, glaring over at John, "Child or not, that girl is the only link I have to Moriarty."

"So, if you don't want to loose that link, go in there and be civil," I quickly say, turning his face so that we are eye to eye, "Don't be so cold, try and show a little compassion."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and goes back to his pacing; "Children can be such a chore," he says with a heavy sigh, "They can be so dull and tiresome, and the yet the world continues to treat them like precious gems. It's annoying. Look, it's not that I hate children, I just don't' see the point in it all."

I quickly give John a side-glance and he looks at me with a mixture of sadness and concern. He knows exactly what I'm thinking; if that's the opinion Sherlock holds about children, then how will he feel about his own child?

"Well, but, you don't mean that bout_ all_ children, right?" I say, feeling a tight lump develop in my throat. John shakes his head as if to tell me to not go any further, but I quickly turn all my attention to Sherlock: "I mean, what about when we have kids? You won't consider them annoying, would you?"

"That's irrelevant." Sherlock says, still pacing, "Besides, you make it sound like we are going to have children soon, which isn't the case."

"Oh?"

"Of course, be logical darling. We don't have the intention to start a family right now and we haven't had sex in awhile; you have been too sick these past few days, anyways to even…" Suddenly, he stops and I can see that the cogs are turning in his head. Dear Lord, he's figuring it out. Very slowly, he turns to me; eyes very serious. "Why have you been sick?" he asks, half to himself, "You've feeling ill for quiet some time, but have been hiding it until now. Why have you been hiding it? You've been experiencing some mood swings as well, why is that? Joints are aching, that's clear by the way you walk. Why is that?"

Sherlock takes a step closer to me so that we are toe to toe. I bite my lower lip and just look into his eyes. He knows, but he doesn't want to say it. He needs to hear it form me. "Elfie," He whispers, "tell me what is going on."

"I think you already know." I reply.

Sherlock stares at me in disbelief as he places a shaking hand on my cheek. Just as he is about to speak, the door to the interrogation room opens and Donovan and Lestrade come out. The moment is lost; Sherlock immediately snaps back into case mode, leaving me to just stand there and catch my breath.

"Right, then. The professionals have finished." Donovan remarks sarcastically, "If the amateurs wanna go in and have their turn-"

Sherlock rolls his eyes at her and motions for John to get up. John does so but looks to me with a worried gaze. I just clear my throat and stand off to the side; I need a moment.

"Now, remember," Lestrade, warns, "she's in shock and she's just seven years old, so anything you can do to-"

"Not be myself?" Sherlock quips in with a hint of arrogance. Lestrade and John share a knowing look.

"Yeah. Might be helpful." The detective inspector says. Lestrade opens the door for Sherlock and he determinedly walks inside. Suddenly, there is a loud, ear-piercing scream coming from the little girl.

"No, no, I know it's been hard for you," I hear Sherlock try to calm her, but its no use. She is screaming for dear life. What the hell?

"Get out!" Lestrade demands, as he hooks Sherlock by the arm and pulls him out of the room. Sherlock stumbles back in shock and just stares at the door in utter confusion. Cautiously, I set a hand on his back. He quickly turns but relaxes slightly when we make eye contact.

"What just happened?" I ask, but Sherlock just shakes his head. He stares off into the distance in deep thought for a moment and then looks back at me. Trying to be comforting, I slowly wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head under his chin. Sherlock holds me in return, but I can tell that he's still deep in thought.

"Something else is going on," he says in a whisper, "something much bigger then I feared."

"How do you mean?" I ask, lifting my head so that I can make eye contact with him, "She's traumatized; a new face probably startled her and…"

"No, no, it's not that." He goes on, staring off into space and looking completely deadpanned, "Its…I.O.U."

"What?" I ask, "Sherlock, what does that mean?"

"I.O.U." he just repeats to himself, "I.O.U."

_**Hello all!**_

_**Things are getting darker now and, well, we know where it will lead to…but that won't be for a while, I promise.**_

_**I can't wait to share the next few chapters with you guys. You've all been so supportive of this and I really do appreciate it. It keeps me writing so thank you, thank you, thank you.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	6. Chapter 6: Doubt

_Chapter 6: Doubt_

"Makes no sense." John mutters, shaking his head in disbelief.

"The kid's traumatized." Lestrade says, "Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper."

We are all gathered in Lestrade's office, letting what has just happened fully sink in; John and Lestrade are standing up while I'm sitting in one of the office chairs. John insisted I sit down after today's events, despite me telling him that I'm absolutely fine; must be the doctor in him, kicking in. As they talk with one another, my full attention is on Sherlock, standing by the windows, gazing out into the night. From what I can tell, he's deeply shaken. Of course he would be; this little girl is terrified of him and for no apparent reason. And what does 'I.O.U.' mean? He kept mumbling it to himself as we walked into the office. Is it a clue, or something?

"So what's she said?" John asks, referring to the poor, terrified girl.

"Hasn't uttered another syllable." Donovan adds in from the doorway, giving Sherlock an accusing glare. I roll my eyes and lean all the back in my chair; honestly, it wasn't Sherlock's fault the girl's shaken. Donovan needs to back off.

"And the boy?" John goes on.

"No, he's unconscious" Lestrade replies, "still in intensive care."

"Poor things," I say, "God only knows what they've been through." I look over at Sherlock to see if he's going to add anything to the conversation. Suddenly, I notice him tense up in shock, but as soon as I blink, he is relaxed again. Did he see something outside or did he just come to a realization in his mind? I can never tell with him.

"Well, don't let it get to you." Lestrade says, addressing Sherlock, "_I_ always feel like screaming when you walk into a room! In fact, so do _most_ people." He looks at John and I with a smirk and nudges his head to the door; "Come on."

John and Lestrade walk out of the office, but I go to Sherlock's side. He is slipping into his mind palace, I can tell by his gaze. Cautious not to break his train of thought, I place a gentle hand on his shoulder. He shutters at my touch but then relaxes when he realizes that it's me.

"You okay?" I ask and he gives me a small nod. He then takes my hand into his and places a soft kiss on my knuckles. He's upset, but I don't think it's just because of this girl. Something else is on his mind, something that's shaking his core. What isn't he telling me?

"Let's go home," I say, gently stroking his cheek. Sherlock nods and we head toward the door.

"Brilliant work you did, finding those kids from just a footprint." Donovan taunts, still leaning in the doorway, "It's really amazing."

"Thank you." Sherlock grumbles, tightly squeezing my hand.

"Unbelievable." She adds, but we just push past her, not taking in any count for what she's saying.

John must have already made his way down so we enter the lift and head down the first floor. We don't speak or really make eye contact with each other. What is there to say? I don't want to bring up the victim's screams because that will lead to Sherlock being more stressed out. I certainly don't want to bring up the children topic again, at least not right now. To be honest, I don't think Sherlock really even registered the short conversation. I'll wait until we get home.

"How long?" Sherlock says, staring up at the ceiling.

I turn my head toward him in a confused gaze; "What are you talking about?" I ask, gently squeezing his hand.

"How long have you known that you were expecting?" he asks rather bluntly. I take in a sharp breath and look to the ground; Guess he did register it? Oh God, he wants to talk about it right now? Really? Can't we just wait until we get home?

"Sherlock," I mumble, "maybe you should…"

"Elfie, please look at me." Sherlock says with the deepest sincerity. Slowly, I lift my head and look into those sea foam orbs of his that I love so dearly. He doesn't seem upset, but rather…actually, I can't tell what he's feeling right now.

"I…I took a test today," I admit, sheepishly, "quite a few tests actually."

"And?" he presses for me to go on.

"They were positive."

"Which leads to my previous question; how long have you known?"

"Sherlock, I'm trying to tell you that I just found out today." I say, "That's why I wasn't feeling well."

"Yes, I am aware of that." Sherlock quickly snaps. He then closes his eyes and turns his head back up to the ceiling; "John," he breathes out in a heavy sigh, "he…he can make sure that this-this thing is really happening?"

"Thing?" I ask, a bit taken back, "Sherlock, I'm carrying a child, not an object. I'd really appreciate it if you didn't call he or she a 'thing'."

"But your not sure your pregnant yet," he says, "why else would you take more than one test and then come all the way down to the Yard to ask John for his medical advice? That is why you came down, isn't it? Obviously, if you were absolutely certain that you were…with child, then you would have waited until John and I had come home. Then, you would break the news and more or less expect me to react in some foolish way; maybe hope I'd shed a tear or two."

"Sherlock," I warn, trying to hide that this little monologue is on the verge of upsetting me.

"No, Elfie, let me finish," Sherlock states, putting his hand up defensively, "But you didn't wait for us, did you? No, you decided that, despite not feeling 100 percent better then you did this morning, you would make the trek from Baker Street to Scotland Yard in hopes to find Dr. Watson and ask his medical opinion on the matter. However you got sidetracked. I will take partial responsibility for that; I did take you along to the warehouse. You could have said something, though. Could have said; 'Sherlock, darling, I can't come with you because I am quite possibly 8 weeks pregnant.' Because you are in fact, 8 weeks along: I calculated that just now, actually. Your morning sickness and other various symptoms match up to that time slot. So, now you see don't you? You are in fact carrying my child. My…child."

He pauses for a moment and looks down at his feet; I think the reality is finally hitting him. Now, he's fully understands that he is going to be a father. I slowly place a hand on his cheek and turn his head toward me. Sherlock gazes into my eyes and gently puts a hand on my abdomen. "You're pregnant." He whispers as if to officially confirm it.

"Yes," I reply, "and I need to know what you're feeling right now. You know I don't ask about your emotions, but this is serious. I need to know if you're upset about this. I need to know if you're upset with me."

"I'm…I'm not upset with you, Elfie." He says in a quiet voice, "I know that I sound like it, right now, but-It's not because of this child. It's…It's something else."

"What?" I ask, setting a hand on his shoulder, "Tell me."

"I can't." He sighs, looking at me with the distressing gaze, "For the first time, I can't tell you what's going on. It's too…difficult." Sherlock then takes in a deep breath and looks down at my stomach; "Odd, isn't it?" he says, half to himself, "A human life, no bigger than a kidney bean, is right there. Right between us." He moves in close to me so that I can place my hands on his biceps and so that both of his hands are gently touching my stomach. His fingers trace along my middle and I can't help but let one stray tear fall from my eyes. This is really happening; we are going to be parents. But why does he seem so sad?

"Fee, I have to tell you something." Sherlock says, suddenly becoming very serious, "Do you remember, after Moriarty's trial, when I told you that things were going to change? That he was hell bent on…ending me?"  
"Yes," I reply, becoming very worried.

Sherlock locks eyes with me and lets out a heavy sigh: "I think it's starting."

"What is, love?"

"The end."

Before I can press the topic even further, the lift dings to a stop and the silver doors glide open. Sherlock takes me by the hand again and we exit out of the building and into the cold London night. John is waiting for us by the curb.

"There you guys are," he says, "Everything alright?"

"Fine." Both Sherlock and I reply at the same time. We exchange a quick glance and I let out a heavy sigh. What the hell did he mean by the end?

"You sure about that?" John teases, "Because you both look like…"  
"Elfie's pregnant." Sherlock quickly interrupts, "I want you to absolutely confirm it, though, John. I don't want any other doctor knowing about it. If the papers get word…it will be to much chaos and I don't want that."

"Yeah, um, sure, of course." John says with a nod. He then and looks at me in surprise: "Are you alright with that?" he asks me.

I nod and latch onto Sherlock a bit tighter. He doesn't respond to the affection; he just keeps staring ahead like the most interesting piece of information in the world is there. What is going on in that brain of his?

"You okay?" John asks his best friend.

"Thinking." Sherlock says in his monotone way. John looks to me for an answer but I just shake my head; I'll tell him when we get home. A cab pulls up to the curb, but much to John and mine's surprise, Sherlock steps in front of us and opens the door.

"This is _my_ cab." He says, getting inside, "You get the next one."

"Why?" John asks.

"You might talk." Sherlock replies, shutting the door. The cab speeds off and we just watch it go.

"What's wrong with him?" John asks me.

"I wish I knew." I reply, "Truly, I wish I knew."

A few moments later, another cab passes by and we manage to flag it down. We climb in back and, as soon as we are on our way, I tell John about what just transpired between Sherlock and I. To be honest, I don't know if he's happy about the pregnancy or not. He seemed so distant just now, like his mind wasn't even on the same planet. I am use to him being cold and slipping away into the world of a case, but this; this is different.

"Sherlock had mentioned something about 'the end'." I say, looking down into my lap and twiddling my fingers, "What do you think that means?"

"Honestly, I couldn't say." John regretfully replies, "Since the trial ended, though, he has been acting a bit off lately, well more that usual."

"Do you think he's…scared?" I ask, timidly, "I mean, tonight was the first time he's ever said that he couldn't explain what was going on. He seems really shaken, John."

John sighs heavily and looks out the window; "There is just too much happening right now, what with this case, that article, not mention our new neighbors. God, I wonder if Sherlock's figured it out about them."

"What article?" I ask, looking at him with a furrowed brow, "What new neighbors?"

"I talked with Mycroft this morning," John explains, facing me, "he wanted to warn me, I guess, about these people who have moved to Baker Street in the past two months. None of them have anything in common, except for the fact that they are all trained assassins."

"Oh God," I say, taking in a sharp breath, "you don't think…Are they planning to…no, not Sherlock. They can't!"

"Fee, Fee, calm down." John comforts, placing a firm hand on my shoulder, "Sherlock is going to be fine. Mycroft just wanted to let us be aware of their presence in case something does happen."

"Well, of course something is going to happen." I point out, "I'm pretty sure assassins didn't just move near Sherlock for no reason. It's him, isn't it? It's Moriarty."

"I wouldn't be surprised," John breathes out, gazing back out the cab window. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat; this is too much to take right now. First the baby, then the kidnapping, and now this; God, it makes my stomach churn. Sometimes, I really wonder what the kind of life I've gotten myself into.

"Are we safe, John?" I ask, placing a hand on my stomach, "I mean, I know Sherlock will look out for us, but what if that's Moriarty's plan. He's made it clear before that he could and would use you and I to break Sherlock."

"Elfie, don't think like that." John says in a comforting way, "It's going to be alright, I know it. Besides, you've got more important things to worry about right now." We then look at one another; John gives me a friendly smile and I feel a tad better. He's right; I need to focus on this baby. That's the most important thing.

Just as we come up on Baker Street, John and I notice two dark figures standing near a lamppost and shaking hands. One is must be Sherlock; I'd recognize that coat anywhere. What is he doing? Who is that? Suddenly, there is a loud bang, almost like a gunshot:

Then another.

Then another.

The man standing across from Sherlock falls down causing my husband to immediately spin around and look for the source of the sound. I quickly grab John's arm in shock and he nods.

"Stop the cab!" John quickly demands and the cabbie obliges. He throws open the door and the both of us hurriedly climb out. "Sherlock!" John calls out when we near the consulting detective. He locks a gaze on us and just stands there like a statue: eyes wide, hands shaking, having trouble keeping balance. He's in shock, complete and utter shock. Not wasting another second, I go to him and wrap my arms around in a tight embrace. To my surprise, Sherlock holds me right back and nuzzles his head onto my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, "I'm so sorry."

"Hey, it's alright. Your okay," I whisper, tangling my fingers in his curls, "Your fine. I'm here. There's nothing to apologize for, okay? Just relax." Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just keeps holding me close, but not too tight.

"I'm going to call an ambulance." John quickly says, taking command, "Fee, you take care of him." I give John a nod then turn my attention to the body lying a few feet away. There are three bullet holes in his chest. My stomach starts to churn and I quickly shut my eyes.

God, what is going on?

An ambulance and some police arrive shortly, but nobody we recognize. The three of us are standing off to the side and out of the way, waiting for the okay to go. Sherlock is watching the people at work intently. His fingers are twitching nervously and his eyes are darting about like they do when he's on a case, taking in every tiny detail.

"Are you okay?" I ask, but he just shakes his head dismissively.

"It was my fault," he says in a low voice,

"Sherlock, don't say that." John says, "You couldn't have known…"

"No, no, I mean that it was my fault the shots were fired." He goes on, "That man had saved from a car collision and then is killed moments later for no apparent reason. Someone was waiting for me to interact with him. The shooter was watching us."

Just then the stretcher with the man's body rolls by us as the paramedics load him into the parked ambulance: "That ... it's him." John quips, suddenly sounding very excited, "It's him: Sulejmani or something. Mycroft showed me his file. He's a big Albanian gangster lives two doors down from us."

"One of our new neighbors?" I ask and John gives me a nod.

"He died because I shook his hand." Sherlock says, looking straight ahead.

"What do you mean?" John asks

"He saved my life but he couldn't touch me." Sherlock explains, "Why?" He then stuffs his hands in his coat pockets and dashes toward our building. Confused and a bit bewildered, John and I quickly follow.

Once inside 221b, Sherlock tosses off his coat and scarf then gets to work on his laptop; "Four assassins living right on our doorstep." He says to no one in particular, "They didn't come here to kill me; they have to keep me alive. I've got something that all of them want, but if one of them approaches me-"

"The others kill them before they can get it." John finishes for him as he gazes out the window.

"But what do they want?" I say, adding in my two cents. I stand beside Sherlock and look at the computer screen. He takes his gaze away from the screen for a moment and turns to me in surprise. "Problem?" I ask.

"You should get to bed." He says rather matter of factly, but I know exactly what he means: He doesn't want me apart of this.

"No, you're not cutting me out of this," I say, getting defensive, "I am as much apart of this as you and John. If you are going to start to solve this mystery, then I want to help. It's my responsibility to help you; I'm your wife."

"Which is why I'm saying you should go get some sleep," Sherlock presses, "you have been on your feet for far too long today and you need to keep your energy up."

"Sherlock, I'm fine. Please don't shut me out of this."

"I'm not shutting you out, I'm trying to protect you. It's my responsibility to care for you as husband…and as a father."

I open my mouth to reply, but the look in his eyes stops me. Behind those sea foam orbs, I can see the genuine love and concern of his statement. It's right now that I realize how he truly feels about this pregnancy. He recognizes the responsibility he now has. He truly cares.

Sherlock turns his body toward me fully and gently pulls me in close my waist; "I wasn't completely straight with you earlier and I do apologize for that," he says, gently rubbing his hand on my stomach, "Words can't fully explain how I feel about this baby, but I promise you right now that I will be the best father that I can be. I love you, Elfie Marie and I will love our child as well." He pauses for a moment and takes my hands into his own; "But you must trust me, right now." He goes on, looking determinedly into my eyes, "I'm not shutting you out. I'm only doing what is best for you…for the both of you." Sherlock's gaze turns to my stomach and he places a soft kiss just above my belly button.

I can't help but blush and allow my eyes to fill up with tears; "Damn it, Sherlock," I tease, drying my eyes, "You made me cry."

He chuckles and looks back up to lock his eyes with my own. We lean in and exchange a deep kiss. For this moment, there is no trouble. Deep down, I wish that life could stay like this, but I know that could never happen. There's never a dull moment with Sherlock Holmes, especially when there are mysteries such as these.

"Now, go lay down." He whispers when our lips part.

"I'm sleeping on the couch," I say, "If I have to rest and let you two have all the fun, I'm at least going to stay in the same room as you guys."

Sherlock smiles and kisses my knuckles before turning back to his computer. I quickly head to the bedroom and change into my pajamas. As soon as I dawn my grey sweat pants and tank top, the exhaustion finally hits me. Maybe I am pushing it? Grabbing an extra blanket off the bed, I head back into the living room and take my spot on the couch.

"So what have you got that's so important?" John asks, still standing guard at the window.

"Is it possible that these people don't want something, but rather just you?" I inquire, adjusting the Union Jack pillow under my head, "No offense, love, but a lot of criminals want to see you come to harm."

Sherlock looks up from his computer and stares into space for a moment. Then there's a small spark in his eye; Ah! He's just thought of something.

"We need to ask about the dusting." He says with a small smirk on his face.

Within moments, Sherlock has sprinted down to Mrs. Hudson's flat and brings our befuddled landlady up to our living room; "What on Earth do you need at this hour, young man?" she asks in her motherly way. She then notices me on the couch and gives me a small smile; "Feeling better, dear?" she asks.

"Yes, very much so now that I know what it is." I reply.

"Oh! So you are pregnant? Isn't that exciting!" she coos, "I'm so proud of the both of you. I always knew that you'd be a father one day, Sherlock. I had the feeling you'd…"

"The dusting, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock quickly demands as he rushes about the living room, "Precise details: in the last week, what's been cleaned?"

"Well, Tuesday I did your lino..." Mrs. Hudson begins, taking a moment to think.

"No, in here, _this_ room." Sherlock presses, "This is where we'll find it – any break in the dust line. You can put back anything but dust. Dust is eloquent."

"What's he on about?" Mrs. Hudson whispers to John, who has moved from the window and is now standing near the doorway. He looks more stressed out then Sherlock does, to be honest. I've never really seen that look from him before.

"What exactly are you looking for?" I ask, propping myself up on my elbow.

"Cameras." Sherlock replies as he checks over the fireplace, "We're being watched."

"What? Cameras?" Mrs. Hudson cringes, "Here? I'm in my nightie!"

I let out a small chuckle; She has a valid point.

Just then the front door doorbell rings and Mrs. Hudson quickly goes downstairs to answer it with John close behind. I turn my attention back to Sherlock, now climbing over our furniture as if it were playground equipment.

"Do you want me to help?" I ask, feeling a bit useless just lying here.

"No, no, darling, I've got it." Sherlock replies, reaching up to the top of the bookshelf, "I've…got…it." He slowly pushes one of the books aside and extends his lengthy arm up to grab something. I sit up fully and watch as Sherlock may have quiet possibly found what he was looking for.

"Did you get it?" I ask,

"No, Inspector." He replies. I furrow my brow in confusion but then I realize that he's not addressing me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lestrade enter the room. He looks so stressed and upset; is there bad news? God, I hope it's not the kids.

"What?" the inspector asks my husband who has finished grabbing his treasure from behind the books.

"The answer's no." Sherlock say, studying the tiny camera he has pressed between his fingers.

"But you haven't heard the question!" Lestrade counter points

"You want to take me to the station." Sherlock states, "Just saving you the trouble of asking."

Station? Wait, why would Lestrade take Sherlock to the Yard?

"Sherlock..." the detective inspector sighs,

"The scream?" Sherlock inquires, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah."

"Who was it? Donovan? I bet it was Donovan. Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Ah, Moriarty is smart. He planted that doubt in her head, that little nagging sensation. You're going to have to be strong to resist. You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home…" Sherlock then reaches forward and briefly places his index finger on Lestrade's forehead "...there."

I look at the two men in complete wonderment: "No! You're kidding, right, Greg?" I ask, with a nervous chuckle, "Sherlock kidnapped those two!? That's ridiculous! He was with me all day until you came by. Why would he do such a thing?"

"Will you come?" Lestrade asks, ignoring me completely and trying to not show how disappointed he really is to be doing this.

Sherlock just gives him a look, then turns his attention to his laptop; "One photograph – that's his next move." He says, plugging the tiny camera into his computer, "Moriarty's game: first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch. It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play." He then looks back and Lestrade, "Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan." He finishes with a smart alack attitude.

Lestrade sighs heavily then exchanges a sad look with John, who has been hiding out in the doorway. Seriously, why is he being so quiet? Lestrade then turns to me and gives me a respectful nod before descending the stairs.

"They'll be deciding." Sherlock says once the three of us are alone.

"Deciding?" John asks

"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me." He replies, rather bluntly.

"You think?"

"Standard procedure."

"Should have gone with him. People will think..."

"I don't care what people think."

"You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong." John challenges

"No, that would just make _them_ stupid or wrong." Sherlock sasses back.  
I watch as John angrily returns to his spot by the window. He gives a look as he walks by as if to subconsciously ask me if I believed this. I just look right back at him: No, John, of course not.

"Sherlock," I say, "do you really…I mean, it just doesn't make sense. Why would Lestrade think you a suspect?"

"As I stated before, it's all apart of Moriarty's plan." Sherlock explains, "Doubt is contagious, my darling. Moriarty placed doubt in Donovan's mind, which was perfect ammunition for her constant disliking of me, and that doubt spread. He wants it to keep spreading until my reputation is completely ruined." Sherlock then lift his head for a moment to lock eyes with me: "You don't believe it do you?" he asks.

"No, God no." I reply, "I would never doubt you, Sherlock. You know that."

He gives me a small smile and a nod. He then turns his attention to John, who has once again become silent. "You're quiet, Dr. Watson." Sherlock presses, returning to his laptop, "You know that I value your opinion, so please share it."

"Sherlock," John pipes in, sounding very upset, "I don't want the world believing you're..." He quickly stops himself and shakes his head as if the words are too hard for him to say.

"That I am what?" Sherlock presses

"A fraud." He replies with some struggle.  
Sherlock rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair: "You're worried they're right."

"What?"

"You're worried they're right about me."

"No."

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."

"No I'm not." John grumbles, looking out the window again. Sherlock gives off an annoyed sigh and clenches his fists. It is true; he doesn't care about what the world says about him. But John; John's opinion matters the most. I may be Sherlock Holmes' wife, but I am nowhere near to being his John Watson.

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too." Sherlock hisses, "Can't you _see_ what's going on?" His sudden shouting and slamming of his hands on his desk causes me to jump slightly. John looks at him for a few seconds, and then looks out of the window again.

"No, I know you're for real." He says

"A hundred percent?" Sherlock asks, returning to his computer

"Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick _all_ the time." John says, turning back to him. The two friends look at one another and all is forgiven, just like it always is.

I will never understand it, but they are the perfect friendship.

"Elfie," Sherlock says, rising from his desk and walking over to me.

"Yes?" I ask, straitening up, "What do you need?"

He gives me a small smile and sits down beside me. "I need you to just be near me," he whispers, putting an arm around my shoulder, "Please?"

I smile and cuddle up as close to him as possible as I can. Sherlock wraps his arms around me in a comforting hold and places a kiss on the top of my head: "Whatever happens," he whispers, "I promise you this: You and our child are going to be protected. I won't let anything happen to you; I love you."

"I love you too," I whisper back, finally letting exhaustion take over, "and I believe in you, no matter what they say."

"I know you do," Sherlock sighs, "I know."

_**And so the craziness begins…**_

_**So I really didn't know where to end this chapter so if it seems a bit ramble-y, I'm sorry. I wanted to get this posted before I had to go into work. Thanks as always for the reviews, favorites and follows. They brighten my day.**_

_**Oh, and I put one of those poll things on my profile because I had never done one before and I thought "Eh, why not?" It concerns Elfie and Sherlock's wedding (or Elflock as some of you have come to call it***__**wink wink**__***). Since I don't really have any more stories to put in "The Pleasure is Mine, Mr. Holmes" I wondered about putting in the wedding. Or maybe it would be a stand alone…I don't know. It would be super short and just harmless fluff, but let me know if you guys want to read it.**_

_**I don't own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_


	7. Chapter 7: The Genius & His Darling Girl

_Chapter 7: The Genius and His Darling Girl_

There is an uncomfortable tension in 221b. John has continued to stand guard at the window while Sherlock and I are cuddled together on the couch: he lying on his back, me lying beside him with my head resting on his chest. The room is eerily quiet. The three of us don't dare to speak; what is there to say, really? Each of us is in our own state of thought about what has happened but just can't formulate the words to express it. I listen to my husband's rhythmic heartbeat as he gently rubs his hands up and down my back. Although my eyes are closed, I'm trying my best to fight off the exhaustion that has finally hit me after today's turmoil. I can't fall asleep now, though, Sherlock needs me. Even though he won't say it, I know that this whole ordeal is affecting him, right to his core.

To be called a fraud is ridiculous! What reason do the police have to make that kind of accusation? Ugh, it makes me sick. Sherlock has worked so hard to become the detective that he is and it is simply just isn't right to place this accusation on him. If Moriarty is behind all of this-which wouldn't surprise me-then he has gone way too far. Sherlock's reputation could be destroyed out of this rumor, and then…God, I don't even know what he would do with himself. His work is his life; without it, he wouldn't have a purpose. Sherlock would have to resort to being 'normal' which simply isn't who he is.

Then there's this weird article coming out: _'The Truth About Sherlock Holmes'_; that Kitty Riley woman Sherlock had mentioned during the trial had written this exposé. But he didn't give her an interview, so who's her source? The teaser is stating that it's someone by the name or Richard Brook but I have never heard of him before, most likely some local creep who just wants his fifteen minutes of fame. How annoying.

"John," Sherlock whispers, thinking that I'm asleep, "I need to ask you something?"

"What is it?" John replies half-heartedly

I feel my husband's chest rise and fall with a heavy sigh: "You have always been good to Elfie and I," he goes on, gently kissing the top of my head, "and, as I've stated before, I consider you a friend…my best friend, really. I have never had one of those before, which should come as no surprise."

"Sherlock, what are you getting at?" John asks, sounding worried, "Your not sounding like yourself."

"John, with these accusations toward me becoming public knowledge and should things…turn south, I want you to watch over Elfie and the child. I need them to be protected; they are my family and I don't want them harmed in any way."

"Sherlock, you're talking like your never going to see them again. Lestrade isn't going to arrest you. He…He wouldn't."

"You saw the look on his face, John; he has no choice in the matter. If they were as stringent to the rules as they claim to be, Lestrade and his team will be speaking with the chief superintendent right now and getting a warrant for my arrest."

"Well, if they are going to arrest you, they might as well take me in too." John replies in his military voice, "I was with you on most of these cases so it would make sense that they take me in as an accomplice. I'm sticking by your side, Sherlock and help with…"

"No John, not this time." Sherlock quickly interrupts, "This time, you have to protect her. I have to go alone."

I hear John take in a deep breath and I have to use all my strength not to burst out in tears. Why is Sherlock talking like this? He's acting like he's given up. He can't; this is just some trick Moriarty's playing and he can beat him. He always does. This isn't the end. It can't be.

"John, I don't care how people react to me," Sherlock goes on, "I'm use to coldness and petty insults. But I don't want any of that affecting my wife and child. They don't deserve it and, Elfie…" he pauses for a moment and I feel his chest rumble with a small chuckle. "She wouldn't be able to handle what they'd say about me. Probably, fight with every reporter she came across with her bare fists. She has a big heart, John, you know that; she cares too much, she always has. She's always cared for me and I've always held her in very high regard."

He places a soft kiss on the top of my head and starts to run his fingers through my hair; "I love her, John." He says, allowing sadness to seep into his voice, "and I can't loose her. That is why you must promise me that you'll protect her and the child."

"Sherlock, mate," John replies, "I don't know why your saying this."  
"John, promise me." Sherlock just repeats, sounding very serious.

"Of course," John sighs heavily, "you have my word."

"Thank you." Sherlock says, quietly, before placing another kiss on top of my head. Just then, John's phone starts to ring.

"It's Lestrade," he says, stepping out to take it, "maybe he's managed to cut you some sort of deal, or something."  
"Doubt it," Sherlock grumbles in reply. He then hooks one of his arms around my shoulders and the other under my knees. Very carefully, Sherlock rises from the couch and carries me to the bedroom. I cuddle up close to him in his hold, as if to still be asleep, and keep my eyes shut. We reach the bedroom and Sherlock gently lays me down on the bed. "My darling, darling, girl." He whispers, leaning in close and brushing some stray hairs out of my eyes, "You heard all of that didn't you?"

I can't help but sigh heavily; Of course he knew I wasn't asleep…and yet he said all of that to John anyway. Slowly, I open my eyes and look at him. Despite the small smirk that he gives me, Sherlock seems so sad and worn out, like this has all been too much on him.

"Sherlock," I say, reaching up and stroking his cheek, "honey, why…"

"Don't. Just…don't." He sighs, sitting down beside me and taking my hands into his own, "You must understand that I don't want to leave you."

"Who says that you're going too? Look, this is all just some big misunderstanding. Your not going to jail and I'm certainly not going anywhere. We're an 'us' remember? There is always one with the other."

Sherlock smiles and massages my knuckles: "Elfie, you know exactly what's going to happen. Lestrade is on his way over here to arrest me and I'm going to have to go with him."

"No," I quickly sit up and wrap my arms around his shoulders, "I won't let it happen. Sherlock, you can't leave me. You…you promised you never would." Tears start to well up in my eyes and I hide my face on his shoulder. This isn't happening; is he giving up? No, he can't.

"Shh, it's alright." He coos, holding me in return, "I'm going to fix this, I promise you." Sherlock squeezes me even tighter and starts to rock me back and forth; "Listen carefully to me, darling." He whispers in my ear, "They're going to take me in and I need you to stay in the bedroom, alright? Don't try to fight or argue or anything like that; just stay in here. I will come back for you, okay?"

"Come back?" I sniffle, still not lifting my head from his shoulder, "But…if they're going to arrest you, how are you going to escape?"

"Don't tell me you've lost faith in me already?" he teases, "Come now, Elfie; I'm me, remember?"

I let out a small chuckle and hold him even tighter; "I'll never loose faith in you," I whisper, placing a soft kiss on his neck, "No matter what the police say or what that article claims, I know the real you and I love you."

"Oh, I love you too." He says in reply, tangling one of his hands in my hair, "my darling, darling…wife." We sit there in silence for countless minutes. I don't want to let him go and it feels as if the idea is mutual. Oh God, how I just wish we could stay like this forever. No police, no cases, no Jim Moriarty: Just each other, that's all I want in life.

I just want Sherlock.

"Hamish." He suddenly whispers and I lift my head to look him in the eyes; those mesmerizing orbs are not red from held back tears.

"Hamish?" I ask

"If it's is a boy," he explains, looking down at my stomach as if he can see the baby already, "can we call him Hamish? It's John's middle name and-well, he jokingly mentioned it once to me, but I sort of…liked it."

I chuckle and let a small smile escape my lips: "Hamish Holmes." I say, drying my eyes, "It does have a sort of ring to it. But it's a bit early on for baby names, Sherlock, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock chuckles and cups my face in his hands: "I love you, Elfie Marie Holmes and I always will," he says, brushing my excess tears away with his thumbs, "You have brought out a side of me that I never knew existed and, for that, I am forever grateful. This child, our child, is the most wonderful gift you could ever give me and I…I can't wait to meet them." His voice cracks a bit as he says that and he quickly closes his eyes; "I'm sorry," he says, composing himself, "I didn't mean to be…I mean, I didn't want to get so…"

"Emotional." I finish for him. We lock eyes and laugh like we always do. Sherlock then brings my lips close to his and we exchange the deepest kiss either of us has ever experienced. I wrap my arms around his neck as he gently lays me back down. When our lips finally part, I look into those mystifying eyes of his and sigh: "I don't want you to go," I say, brushing my fingers through his curls, "it's not true what they say; You're not a fraud, you're a genius, my genius."

Sherlock smiles down at me and strokes my cheek: "And you are my darling girl who has always believed in me." He replies, "I'll come back to you, I promise. Now, go to sleep. You've had a long day."  
I sleepily nod and close my eyes. Sherlock pulls the covers up over me and places a soft kiss on my cheek: "I love you," he whispers before getting up and exiting. I hear the door click shut just before I slip into a much-needed sleep.

I awake moments later to the sound of commotion coming from the living room. Worried, I quickly get out of bed and head to door. Sherlock's words suddenly play back in my head:

"…_I need you to stay in the bedroom…"_

I should've asked him why, but it's of no matter now. If Sherlock wants me to stay put, I will. Still curious though, I creak the door open a bit and look out with one eye. I can't see any more than shadows, but certainly hear raised voices:

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

"He's not resisting."

"It's all right, John."

"He's not resisting. No, it's _not_ all right. This is ridiculous."

"Get him downstairs now."

"You know you don't have to do..."

"Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too."

I put a hand over my mouth and close my eyes tight. This is a dream-no, a nightmare-this can't be happening. Sherlock was just arrested on accounts that he couldn't ever be guilty of doing. I'm angry, upset, and sad: I'm an emotional roller coaster, just wanting to stop and be done with it. This whole ordeal needs to be over so that these ridiculous accusations can just go away. God, I hate this.

Suddenly, I hear a loud thud and Mrs. Hudson give out a small shriek. I snap out of my misery and return to my look out position.

"Sir! Sir! Are you alright?" I hear Donovan ask; She would be here. Come to watch "the freak" get what he deserves. She's such a bitch.

"NO I'M NOT! ARREST THAT MAN FOR ASSULT!" a loud, bellow, unfamiliar voice demands.

"I'll gladly go, you bastard!" John hisses. Oh, God, John what did you do? You can't leave me as well.

"Alright that's it, come on then." Donovan says and within seconds I hear some shuffling and John (I assume) being escorted out of the flat. Not wanting to stay on the sidelines a moment long, I quickly exit the bedroom and head toward the living room. My eyes immediately land on Mrs. Hudson quivering and sniffling in the doorway, watching as Donovan and another officer (I'm assuming it's the man John has just assaulted) escort Dr. Watson out of 221b.

"Oh, oh Elfie!" Mrs. Hudson cries, noticing me and wrapping her arms around me in a hug, "I just don't know what's happened. Poor Sherlock! They must be confused; he's done nothing wrong! Oh it's just awful!"

I hold her in return and try my best to hold back my emotions. She's right; this is awful. Sherlock is no criminal. This all Moriarty's doing; it's all part of his plan to break Sherlock. In my heart I know that Sherlock will do whatever is necessary to make this right and get his life back on track, but part of me wonders if that's even possible. There's a twinge of doubt inside me saying that perhaps there is no coming back from this. Maybe this is the end.

No, I don't believe that.

I can't think like that.

When we finally part, Mrs. Hudson dries her eyes on her white robe sleeve and motherly pats my shoulder: "I'll make us a nice cuppa, dear." She says, heading down to her flat, "I…I don't know what else to do."

Suddenly, we hear the ringing of gunshots coming from outside. We quickly sprint to the window and pull back the curtains to watch the chaos below. Sherlock is standing in the middle of the street, a gun in one hand and-Is John handcuffed to his other hand? I can't hear what he's saying but it seems like Sherlock is making some sort of declaration. He holds the gun to John's head and starts to back up toward the corner.

"What is he doing?" Mrs. Hudson says, setting a hand on her heart.

Just then the light bulb goes off in my brain; "Playing the part," I reply, "He has to escape, which is the unexpected move." A small smirk grows across my face and all my worry disappears: Oh, my clever husband, look at you. You're going to beat this, just like I knew you would. "Run, Sherlock," I whisper, placing my hands on the glass, "Just run."

Almost like he could here me, Sherlock turns his head and looks up at the window. He sees me and gives off a small nod. I nod back and blow him a small kiss. In the blink of an eye, he and John take off down the street in a blur. The police officers stand there dumbfounded for a few moments but then quickly gather together to go after the boys. I notice Lestrade, looking around in slight confusion but obviously buying time; he wants them to escape, I knew he didn't believe Sherlock to be a criminal. He too looks up at the window and sees me. With a nod, Lestrade squeezes through the crowd and heads back into the building. Moments later, Mrs. Hudson and I hear him coming up the stairs.

"You wouldn't happen to know where they're going do you?" Lestrade asks, sheepishly, once he reaches the living room.

"Even if I did, do you really think I'd tell you, Greg?" I reply with a small smirk.

The detective inspector chuckles slightly and runs a hand through his grey hair nervously; "Look, Elfie, this whole mess." He tries to explain, "I…You know that I didn't believe it for one second."

"I know," I reply, giving him a nod.

"And Sherlock-God, I mean, he's a bit of a nut, but he's a good man. I've always believed that."

"I know."

Lestrade then gives me a stern look: "If he should come back here tonight, you know to see you or something," he says in a low voice, "well, I won't know it, will I?"

I give off a sigh of relief; Greg wants to help despite his responsibility to the Yard. Sherlock always said that he trusted Lestrade and now I fully understand why; he's a good man.

"Thank you," I reply, "Truly."

"Hey, I don't know what you're talking about," he says modestly, heading out again, "Just stay safe, alright? And if you see Sherlock…tell him to be careful."

"I will."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

I tossed and turned all night causing myself to become tangled up in the bed sheets. What with these early pregnancy aches and the unknowingness of where my husband is, it's no surprise that I can't relax. Every time I slip into a deep enough sleep, I wake up to the sound of Sherlock's voice in my head. I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling, taping a light beat on my abdomen. Words can not describe how badly I want to just pick up my phone and call Sherlock: asking where he is, tell him I love him, just hear his voice so I know he's okay. He said he'd come back to get me, so where is he? I need him. This unnecessary separation is too much.

A memory stirs in my mind. The first time we were apart after becoming a couple: Baskerville. He came by my office before he went to the train station, leaving poor John to wait outside for an hour. I smile as our farewell conversation plays back in my mind:

"_Be safe."_

"_I will."_

"_Text me when you get there?"_

"_Of course."_

"_And don't get into too much trouble."  
"I won't."_

"_Seriously, if there's some government conspiracy going on, then-"_

"_Elfie, are you going to keep mothering me, or can I just kiss you and be on my way?"_

I gently place my fingers over my lips as if to recreate the feeling of Sherlock's lips against my own. God, I miss him. It must be the pregnancy that's making me so emotionally, but, truly, I need to hear from him. Is he okay? Did he find someplace safe to stay? Where is he?

Suddenly, my phone-which has been set on the nightstand just in case-lights up and vibrates. I quickly sit up and grab it. Tears of relief fill my eyes as I read over the text message:

_'Taxi's outside. Come as quick as you can-SH'_

Without so much as a double take, I leap out of bed, dawn my oversized grey sweater and black slip-ons then rush out of the bedroom. I grab my keys and satchel off the coat hanger and quietly tiptoe down the stairs. Once I'm outside, I notice that the police cars have dispersed and there is only one car on the street: a black cab waiting for me.

"Taxi for Mrs. Holmes?" the cabbie asks from the drivers seat and I give him a nod. He motions his head to climb in the back and I do so. Much to my relief, there is my husband waiting for me. Our eyes lock and I practically leap into his arms. Sherlock holds me close and places a soft kiss on my cheek. We don't speak, but I don't care. I'm just happy he's okay.

I am vaguely aware of the door being closed and us getting on our way: "Where are we going?" I ask, finally lifting my head from his coat.

"St. Bart's." Sherlock replies, staring straight ahead, "It's the safest place I know."

"But…what about the flat? Will we ever be able to go back to Baker Street?"

"You will."

"Why not you?"

Sherlock doesn't reply; his hold on me just tightens as he places another kiss on my cheek. There is a sort of tension in the air. Something isn't right, I can tell. I can see it in those eyes of his that there is something he doesn't want to tell me, something big. What is going on in that brain of his, now? Things can't get any more badly than they are now. Deciding not to press the matter, I just nuzzle my head back on his chest and cuddle up as close to my husband as possible.

We arrive at the hospital and quickly get out of the cab. Sherlock doesn't pay the cabbie, but he does whisper something to him before we head inside the building-most be someone in his network. Sherlock then turns to me, takes me by the hand and escorts me to the lab. The hallways are creepier at night and it is eerily quiet, almost like something out of a ghost story. I latch onto Sherlock's arm and rest my head on his shoulder for comfort.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock?" I ask as we near the lab doors, "Where's John?"

"I don't know. We separated for a bit." Sherlock replies, opening the surprisingly unlocked lab doors and guiding me inside, "Besides, I need this time alone with you."

"Why?" I ask

Sherlock flips on the lights and tosses his coat and scarf aside. He walks a few steps in front of me then pauses: "Because I don't know when I'll ever get the chance to ever again." He breathes out, running his hands through his hair.

Taken back by that statement, I toss my bag atop his things and cautiously step in front of him so that we are eye to eye. "Wha-what is that suppose to mean?" I ask, now feeling extremely worried, "Sherlock tell me what is going on."

Sherlock takes in a heavy breath and looks me in the eyes. For the first time, I can see defeat in his gaze. He's worn out, tired, reached his limit; He can't go on with this. Right now, I don't care what brought him to this point but I do understand why he brought me here. He needs my comfort.

"Elfie," he says in a quiet whisper, "I…I can't do this anymore. I'm tired of this game and I want to end it. Moriarty has my whole life story and is using it to fuel his lies. Everything I've worked for, the reputation I've built for myself, the person that I thought I was, has all gone to ruin and it will go downhill from here. I'm not giving up, I promise you that, it's only…I need to end this, Elfie, but I just can't seem to bring myself to do it." Sherlock quickly looks away from me and sinks down to the floor with his back pressed against one of the lab benches; "I'm sorry if I've failed you." He says, resting his forehead on his knees, "I'm sorry I'm not the man you thought you married."

My heart is aching and I can't help but cry. I've never seen him this broken, this lost…this emotional. This man, the strongest, most brilliant man I've ever known, has reached his breaking point His whole world has come crashing down on him and all I can do is sit down beside him and tell him I love him. He needs to know that, he must know that.

"Sherlock," I breathe out, cupping his face in my hands, "honey, look at me." I gently turn his head so that our eyes lock; "It was never your reputation or your work that made me fall in love with you," I go on, gently intertwining my fingers in his curls, "I fell in love and married the_ man_ Sherlock Holmes, not the consulting detective. If you were just some regular, god forbid normal human being that worked a 9-to-5 job, I'd still love you. It doesn't matter to me who people think you are, because I know the truth: I know the real you. Our child-our baby, Sherlock-they are going to know all about the wonderful things you've done and all those people you helped. They are going to look up to and see that their father is a great man and no one, not even all the papers in the world, are going to convince them otherwise."

Sherlock closes his eyes and allows a tear to roll down his cheek. His normally stone cold face softens as he drops his head atop my shoulder and just silently cries. I've only ever seen him cry once before, after we had an argument, but that wasn't nearly as emotional as this. These tears aren't just sad tears; they are his release of all the suffering and emotions he's kept inside.

Gently, I wrap my arms around him and rest my head atop his messy mop of curls. He holds me close and nuzzles his head into the space between my neck and shoulder. We remain like this for what feels like an entirety; I don't want to ever let him go and I believe the feeling is mutual. Sometimes, I wish we could back to our honeymoon; the time where no cases, no work and no god damn Moriarty would bother us. I guess I have always wished for the simpler life with Sherlock, but that's just not who we are.

And I truly wouldn't want us any other way.

"I should message John," Sherlock mutters, finally lifting his head from my shoulder and sitting up straight against the bench, "He's probably wondering where I am." He dries his eyes on his jacket sleeve then looks at me with loving eyes: "I will never forget what you've just told me." He says, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me in close, "For a moment, I had forgotten that I had you by my side, no matter what."  
"Of course you do, you crazy bastard, I love you." I sniffle, resting my head on his shoulder now.

Sherlock chuckles and pulls out his phone. He sends John a quick text message then turns his attention back to me: "Do you remember when we met?" he asks, setting a hand over my abdomen, "The first thing you said to me after saying hello? We were talking about your dialect and I said that I knew 'a lot about everything'. You then asked me why would I need your help if I already knew everything?"

"God, yes, I remember." I say, feeling slightly embarrassed, "I was trying to come off as cool and collected, but what ended up happening was me sounding like an idiot."

"Oh, I don't think so, darling," Sherlock coos, rubbing his hand up and down my arm, "on the contrary I found it quite-what's the word? Adorable?"  
"Sherlock Holmes, you have never used the word 'adorable' in your life."

"I have. I just did."  
I playfully roll my eyes and cuddle up close to him. At this moment, it doesn't feel like we are hiding out in a lab. Right now, everything seems to be back to normal, if only just for a brief moment; "Do you know what I remember about that day?" I ask, tangling his hands in mine, "I remember you telling me that I shouldn't wear glasses because, and I quote: 'they don't complement your exquisite facial features that well, but more importantly they are blocking the shine of your emerald eyes.'"

Sherlock lets out that deep baritone chuckle that I love so much; "God, I wasn't being subtle at all, was I?" he asks, "You have to remember, I had never felt like that before and I was confused, to say the least. I let my words escape me and I wasn't thinking properly."

"You can just say that I took you by surprise," I tease, "It's much easier."

"But you did. You had my heart from the moment I met you, it just took me far to long to realize it." Sherlock and I lock eyes and my heart fills with love for this man; "I've never been a sentimental man, Elfie, you know that." He goes on, "But I want you know-I need you to know, that from that day forward, you were the only person who could make me feel emotion and act, well, less like a machine and more like a human being, to be honest. You have given me so much that there isn't enough time to thank you for it. I'm a better man because of you, Elfie Marie…and I love you."

We give each other a deep passionate kiss. Time stands still and just for this moment, the world is right. I love this man more than I can possibly say and there is nothing that will tear us apart. Ever.

As our lips slowly part, I notice the silver band on Sherlock's left ring finger. "You're wearing your ring." I say, leaning back against his chest, "I thought you'd left it at home."

"Never," Sherlock says, studying our intertwined fingers, "I may not always wear it, but I never leave it at home. I'm your husband; that's what this band stands for, yes? So why would I leave it behind?"

"Why, Sherlock Holmes," I tease, "I do believe you have become a sentimental man."

"No, not sentimental. Just in love with you."

_**Lots of feels in this chapter, guys, I needed to just get them all out. I think it was because one of my friends and I were talking about Third Star over the weekend and I started crying (I mean, come on. How can you not?) If you don't know what I'm talking about look it up, watch it, cry, then get back to me. I'll be here for hugs and tissues.**_

_**ANY WAYS!**_

_**So…we know what happens next. Sorry…not my fault.**_

_**Reading back what I wrote, I realize that I may have set up things a bit differently then I had planed but don't worry. I can still do my original idea with Elfie and…what am I saying? Spoilers!**_

_**Thanks as always for the favorites, comments, follows and all that wonderful stuff. This story is shorter then my first one and I took a different approach when writing it, but your guys' support makes me feel like I'm doing something right.**_

_**Once again I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks!**_


	8. Chapter 8: Solve This

_**I usually do this at the end but I decided to do this at the beginning because…yeah. This was harder to write then expected. I guess when you've created something and you have to pull it apart…GAH NEVERMIND!**_

_**First off, THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER. I do have a tad more to write with this story and I am working on a reunion fic. I have not decided yet if I'll include that in this story or make it separate. Thoughts?**_

_**Thank you all for the wonderful responses about the last chapter (the wonderful Guest who keeps leaving suggestions, I wish I could tell you how much they are appreciated :)). It made me want to make this one the best I could possibly write. I tried to not let you guys down. This is a long one and I hope it's worth the read. :)**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_Chapter 8: Solve This_

"Where are we going to put the crib?"

"Bedroom."

"Our bedroom?"

"Mhm."  
"You sure about that?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

"Something about you, a crying newborn and waking up at ungodly hours of the night doesn't seem to fit together, Sherlock."

My husband chuckles and bounces the rubber ball back to me. We've been playing our little game of catch for who knows how long, chatting about pretty much anything but the issue at hand. Sherlock explained to me how Moriarty used a computer code to become this Richard Brook: an actor Sherlock hired to be Moriarty just so he could come off as a genius. Moriarty had received private information about Sherlock through some source and used that to make his story appear as the truth: Hiding a lie amongst, facts. Clever, genius even, but nonetheless wrong.

Of course, my mind is filled with all sorts of questions but I don't want to ask them. Right now, I'm perfectly content with just sitting here with Sherlock, not at all focused on Moriarty. It feels like we're waiting around for something to happen, but to be honest, I'm not entirely sure what that would be: For John to arrive, maybe? Sherlock did text him not to long ago telling him where we are. Where did John go, for that matter?

"Sherlock," I say, bouncing the ball back to him, "I know you already suggested a boy's name, but what about if it's a girl?"

"It's a boy." He replies with a smirk.

"Okay, honey, I know that you are a super genius and what not, but you can't possibly know the sex of our child yet." I say.

"There's a high probability of it being a boy," he goes on, "For multiple generations, my family has had just boys. Take Mycroft and I for instance; we are our parent's only children and my father's parents had just boys and their parents before them and etc."

"That's just coincidence."

"Nope, my money is on our child being a boy."

"Okay, fine, but can we at least pick out a girl name just to be safe? Call it a back up plan."

"I don't do 'back up plans'. I'm right."

I playfully roll my eyes and catch the rubber ball: "You're so stubborn." I mutter under my breath. Sherlock smiles at me and leans in close so that our lips meet for a soft kiss. Just then, the doors to the lab open and John quickly walks in. Relieved to see that he's okay as well, I quickly get up and give him a warm hug: "Glad you're alright, John."

"Thanks. How are you feeling?" he asks, hugging me back.

"Fine. Just some craps."

"That's normal for this stage. You really should be resting; you've got to keep energy up for two, now."

"Yes, thank you Doctor Watson, but I don't need a babysitter."

We look at each other and laugh. I think that's what he needed right now. he looks more stressed then Sherlock does. That's the thing about John Watson, though; he cares about his friends more than anything else in the world, especially Sherlock.

"Glad you turned up." Sherlock says, tossing the rubber ball against the cabinets in front of him, without even looking toward John.

John gives me a sort of 'is he alright' look and I nod. He gives me a friendly pat on my shoulders then turns his attention to his best friend: "Got your message."

Sherlock catches the ball and holds on to it tightly: "The computer code is key to this. If we find it, we can use it – beat Moriarty at his own game."

"What do you mean, 'use it'?" John asks

"He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook."

"And bring back Jim Moriarty again." John and I say at the same time.

Sherlock gives us both a sort of proud smirk and jumps up from his sitting position: "Somewhere in 221B, somewhere–on the day of the verdict–he left it hidden." He then turns and faces the lab bench, leaning forward with both hands on the work surface and staring ahead deep in thought. John walks to one side and stands beside him, unconsciously mimicking his stance, and I take the other. The three of us just stare and think.

Where would he have left it?

What would it look like?

Would it be in plain sight?

"What did he touch?" John asks

"An apple." Sherlock replies, "Nothing else."

"Did he write anything down?" John tries again.

"No." Sherlock says, half-heartedly. John sighs in annoyance then taps his fingers on the bench before turning around to the other lab bench. Sherlock straightens up slightly and slowly mimics John's tapping. I can see in his eyes that he's hit some sort of realization.

"Figured something out?" I ask, gently setting a hand on his arm. He doesn't respond. He just keeps tapping and staring blankly ahead. "Sherlock, love, are you alright?"

Sherlock straightens his back and gives off a heavy sigh: "Fine." He breathes out, "Just…give me a minuet, darling." He then turns his back on me and pulls out his phone. Seeing that he needs privacy for the moment-probably slipping into the mind palace-I join John at the other lab bench.

"I'm assuming he filled you in on everything?" John asks me in a low voice so that Sherlock doesn't over hear him.

"Yeah," I say with a nod, "it's insane, isn't it? I mean we knew that Moriarty would do anything to break Sherlock, but this is extreme. Where did he get the information? Surely not from just some random person." John looks down at his feet and clenches his fists. Furrowing my brow in confusion, I set a comforting hand on his shoulder: "What is it, John? Do you…know something?"

"It was Mycroft." He whispers, "Fee, it was Mycroft who told Moriarty all of those things in exchange for information. He…he told me."  
"What?" I breathe out in disbelief, "Sherlock's own brother? I know they don't get along, but come on!"

"Shh, keep your voice down." John whispers, putting an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in close He looks back at Sherlock, still deep in his mind palace, then back at me; "We can't let Sherlock know," he goes on, "Like you said, he and Mycroft don't get along, but this is beyond sibling rivalry. Hearing that his own flesh and blood betrayed him might send Sherlock over the edge and…we need to keep him focused on solving this."

"I agree," I reply, "this is already been to much for him. Best not to burden him more."

John nods and gives me a friendly side hug; "You're strong, Elfie." He says, "What with the pregnancy and all of this happening at the same time, most people would be having a mental break down right about now."  
"Well, I can't afford to have one," I reply with a chuckle, "He needs me, John. He'll put on a strong front, but I know in my heart that he's reached his limit." I then look back at my husband and smile; "His work means everything to him, John, and that can't be taken away from him."

"That's not entirely true." John points out, "He is devoted to you. Sure, he'll always be the worlds only consulting detective, but-now, don't tell him I told you this-at his heart he's your husband. That's a title, I truly believe, that he is most proud of."

My cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and look back at John: "Thank you," I say, giving him a friendly hug, "you are too kind, John Watson." John just chuckles and returns the gesture.

"Elfie, I need you." Sherlock quickly says, taking a seat in one of the chairs. John and I part and I go back to Sherlock's side.

"What is it?" I ask, "What can I do to help?"

Sherlock smiles at me then leans back; "Come here," He whispers, gently tapping his lap. Glad to oblige, I climb into his lap and nuzzle up to him, resting my head on his shoulder. Sherlock wraps his arms around me and runs his hand through my hair.

"We're going to be okay, Sherlock." I say, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, "You'll solve this and we can get back to our lives."

"I know we will," he whispers in reply, "It…it'll all be over soon."

I place a soft kiss on his neck and shut my eyes for just a moment. I feel so relaxed and safe in his arms, just like everything around us is perfectly fine. Allowing tiredness to take over, I cuddle up close to my husband and begin to drift off to sleep. His strokes in my hair become more rhythmic as he starts to hum a soft tune, almost like a lullaby. Despite my fatigue, I immediately recognize it:

"You're humming our song," I whisper, lifting my head slightly to look at him with half opened eyes, "Moon River"

"Of course," he replies, stroking my cheek, "it is, as you put, _our_ song." He smiles back at me but then his expression becomes very stern. There's sadness in his eyes, almost like he's made some sort of choice that he immediately regrets. "Elfie," he says, "will you…Promise me that you'll sing it our child, yes? It'll be a lullaby, of sorts, every night, so that it will become their song too. Will you do that for me?"

"Sherlock," I say, hooking my hand gently around his neck, "of course I will. But I don't have to be the only one to sing it to him, you can sing it too."

He smiles at me and nuzzles his forehead against my own: "You called the baby 'him'." He whispers, "So you admit that it's a boy?"

"Slip of the tongue," I tease, rubbing my free hand on his chest. Sherlock gives off that deep baritone chuckle that I love so much and we kiss. To my surprise, Sherlock deepens the kiss almost like he's never wanted to kiss me more then like he does right now. I return the passion and when our lips finally part, I look into those beautiful sea foam eyes: "That was…"

"Shh," Sherlock whispers, setting a soft finger to my lips, "no more talk. It's late and, as John stated before, you need to save your energy." He then rests my head against his shoulder: "Go to sleep, my darling, darling, girl." He coos, returning to stroking my hair, "I'll be here when you wake up."

"I wasn't expecting you to leave." I mumble, letting sleep over take me again, "Where were you planning on going?"

"Nowhere, darling," he whispers, placing a soft kiss on top of my head, "Nowhere at all."

0o0o00o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Hours later, I slowly blink my eyes open and let out a soft yawn. God what time is it? I feel like I've slept for ages. Coming to my senses, I realize that my body is covered by something; it's thick, comforting…Sherlock's coat. I contently sigh and pull it closer to my body. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock can be quiet the romancer. I then turn my head to get awareness of my surrounding; still in the lab, of course, I would remember going home. John has fallen asleep at the other lab bench with his head resting atop his folded arms. Good, he needed to rest.

"Good morning," That all too familiar baritone tone says. Realizing that I'm still in his comforting hold, I smile and lift my head from my husband's shoulder. He smiles back at me, but I can tell that he's tired and worn down.

"Did you get some sleep?" I yawn, "You look exhausted."

Sherlock just shakes his head; "No, not a wink. I just wanted to watch over you."

"That's romantic, but a bit odd, I must admit." I tease.

"How so?" he asks, stroking my cheek, "I only wanted to have the perfect image of you when I…" He quickly stops and looks away; "I mean…you look breathtakingly beautiful when you're sleeping. In fact, you…you always look beautiful to me."

I chuckle slightly and gaze into his eyes. There's something different about him right now. It's like there's some dark secret hiding behind those eyes. And he sounds so…sad. What is going on? Did something happen while I was sleeping? Before I can ask what the matter is, John's cell phone goes off. Both Sherlock and I turn our attention to the groaning, awakening doctor as he raises his head and answers it:

"Yeah," he groans, "speaking." Suddenly his eyes widen with shock: "Er, what?" he exclaims, now fully awake, "What happened? Is she okay? ...Oh my God. Right, yes, I'm coming."

"What is it?" Sherlock asks, adjusting his hold on my waist so that I can sit up straight, his voice very straightforward.

"Paramedics." John replies, franticly, "Mrs. Hudson…she's been shot."

"Oh my God!" I breathe out, placing a hand on my fast beating heart.

"What? How?" Sherlock asks, but not at all sounding worried. Seriously, this woman is practically his mother. He should show some sort of emotion.

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract" John says with a worried tone, "Jesus, _Jesus!_ She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go." I quickly jump out of Sherlock's lap, set the coat on the lab bench and head toward the door with John. My mind is spinning; how the hell could this have happened? I thought those assassins were just there for Sherlock. Would one of them really hurt Mrs. Hudson? What could she have done to make this happen?

Suddenly, my husband says something that stops John and I dead in our tracks:

"You go. I'm busy."

John and I look at one another then turn back towards Sherlock, both of us looking at him appalled.

"Busy?" John asks as if to wrap his head around what Sherlock has just said.

"Thinking. I need to think." Sherlock replies, gazing off into the distance and not giving a care in the world. Okay, something is seriously wrong? This isn't my Sherlock.

"You need to...? Doesn't she mean _anything_ to you?" John exclaims, "You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

"She's my landlady." Sherlock brushes it aside.

"Sherlock, you can't be serious!" I say in disbelief. He turns his head and locks eyes with me. There's a sudden lump in my throat; he really isn't coming. He really is just going to sit here. No, something is wrong, something has to be wrong. Why is he acting like this?

"She's dying...You _machine_!" John practically shouts,

"John," I whisper, setting a hand on his elbow and trying to make him notice what I do, "I think something's up."

"No, you know what? Sod this." He says, shaking his head in frustration and disbelief, "Sod this. You stay here if you want, Sherlock, on your own."

"Alone is what I have." Sherlock states in a monotone, "Alone protects me."

"No. _Friends_ protect people." John bites back, "Come on, Elfie."

"I'll be right behind you." I tell him, walking toward Sherlock.

"Fee!" John exclaims

"I'm coming John, just give me a second." I practically snap. John shakes his head then storms out of the lab.

"You should go with him," Sherlock states, fiddling with his phone.

"Not until I find out what the hell is going on with you right now?" I say, finally letting my frustration show toward him, "Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson is family to you! She's always treated us as if we were here own. Why are you being so cold?"

"I said I'm busy." He replies, not daring to make eye contact with me, "And if she cares that much to you, then I suggest you get going. Don't want to be too late now, do we?"  
"Sherlock Holmes, how the hell could you say such a thing? Tell me what is going on!"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock..."

"I said nothing, now go. John will be waiting."

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what is going on."

"Elfie, I have to do this alone!" Sherlock suddenly exclaims, "I can't have you around right now so please just go with John and get as far away from this hospital as you can!"

I take in a sharp breath and stare at him bewildered; I've never heard him raise his voice like that before. It wasn't out of anger, but more like compassion. But what does he have to do alone? Why do I need to go far away?

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath: "I know this doesn't make sense right now," he says, "but I need you to trust me, Elfie Marie Holmes. I love you and I need to keep you and our child safe. To do that, I have to solve this case. Please, will you just trust me and go?"  
"Sherlock, I…" I begin but he quickly lifts a hand up to silence me.

He opens his eyes and stares at me like a pleading child: "Please just trust me." He whispers.

I gaze back into those perfect eyes and cup his face in my hands: "Solve this, Sherlock." I whisper, nuzzling my forehead against his, "Please. Solve this, no matter the cost, and come home to me, alright?"

Sherlock nods and quickly pulls me in for a passionate kiss. I kiss him in return and run my fingers through those amazing curls. "Solve this." I whisper when our lips part, "I love you, my brilliant genius."

"I love you, my darling, darling, girl." He replies with the deepest sincerity I have ever heard him speak with, "Now, go."

I place another peck on his forehead then dash out of the lab. He better know what he's doing, my Sherlock. I can't imagine what would happen if Mrs. Hudson were too seriously injured and he wasn't there to help. I catch up with John outside just as he's hailed a cab.

"Ah, did you manage to get the bastard to talk?" John asks, opening the door for me, "I can't believe him, right now."

"He's fine." I say as we get inside the car, "And I'd kind of appreciate it if you didn't call my husband a bastard in front of me, John."

"Sorry," he grumbles. He shuts the door and turns his attention to the cabbie: "221b Baker Street. Quick as you can, please."

"…But you are right though." I say once we are on our way. John looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "Sherlock is a bastard." I reply with a small smirk, "I just wish this whole thing will go away."

"Me too, Fee," John replies, giving me a side hug, "me too."

About 15 minutes later, the cab pulls up in front of our flat. John pays the driver and we quickly sprint out the car. I immediately notice the fact that there is no ambulance or any sort of chaos that comes along with a shooting. If it were the paramedics that called John, wouldn't they still be here?

We jet through the front door-which is open for a construction worker that is working on the walls-and stop dead in our tracks at the sight before us. Mrs. Hudson, cheerful as ever, is standing beside the construction worker on his stepladder, watching him drill a hole.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I ask, furrowing my brow in confusion. Mrs. Hudson turns her head at the sound of my voice and steps back a little.

"Oh, God, you two!" she exclaims with a laugh, "You made me jump!"

"But..." John stutters in confusion.

"Is everything okay now with the police?" she goes on in her motherly manner, "Has, um, Sherlock sorted it all out?"

John and I look at one another for some sort of an answer; we're both at a complete loss here. We thought she was hurt, but she's perfectly fine. Why would someone call and tell John otherwise? Who?

Oh my God.

My eyes grow wide and John gives off a shaky sigh. The same realization dawns on us: Moriarty.

"Oh my God." John breathes out,

"Sherlock," I whisper becoming immediately worried, "He's…he's all alone. God, John, we have to go back." John shakes his head then dashes out of the flat. I quickly follow him, leaving poor Mrs. Hudson utterly confused.

"Taxi!" John yells, flagging one down across the street. I catch up with him just before he steps inside the cab. I start to follow him in, but John suddenly stops and faces me; "Stay here." He says in his captain's voice.

"Like hell, John," I reply, "I'm coming with you."

"No, no, listen to me, Fee." He says, grabbing my arms, "You need to stay here and watch out for Mrs. Hudson, just incase something does happen to her. Plus, you're pregnant and I don't know what's going to happen."

Knowing that he's right, I get out of the cab. Before the car leaves, thought, I poke my head into the back: "Keep Sherlock safe, John." I say, "Bring him home to me."

"You got it." John says with a nod. I slam the car door shut and the cab speeds off. I watch it go until it is completely out of sight, then head back to 221b.

"Everything alright dear?" Mrs. Hudson asks once I'm back inside, "You gave me quite a fright when you weren't here this morning."

"Um, I…I wish I could give you a straight answer, Mrs. Hudson." I say, running a hand through my hair, "Honestly." Suddenly, I feel a surge of nausea in my stomach. Oh God, morning sickness. I quickly wrap an arm around my middle and grab hold of the banister of the staircase for balance.

"Oh, you poor dear," Mrs. Hudson coos, "you head upstairs and make yourself comfortable. I'll bring you up a cuppa. Would you like one, Sebastian? I am saying that correctly, yes?"

"That would be lovely thank you, miss." The construction worker replies.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." I groan heading up the stairs. I do feel bad for leaving her downstairs with that construction worker (apparently his name's Sebastian), but this pain is too much to handle right now.

As soon as I reach the living room, I kick off my shoes, remove my sweater and toss it aside. I spot Sherlock's blue dressing gown neatly draped across his desk chair- Mrs. Hudson must have come up to do some laundry. Smiling, I put it on and plop down on the couch. The flat is too quiet, well, accept for the drilling downstairs, but that's not what I mean. Things just don't feel complete when it's just me in the flat. God, I hope Sherlock's okay and John got there in time. I hate that we left him alone. What am I thinking? Everything is going to be fine. It always is…and always will be.

"Well, I guess it's just you and me." I mutter, rubbing my stomach, "Not that you can hear me…because you're not a _'you' _yet-Not that I don't consider you a _'you'_, I just…Oh God, this is harder then I thought." I look up at the ceiling for a moment then back down at my stomach; "You're father, he would have something clever to say right now. _'Elfie, there's no need to speak to the baby. He hasn't developed a sense of hearing yet so there is no point. Dull.'_" I chuckle to myself at my impression of Sherlock; I've got to remember to show it to him one day.

"He would call you a _'he'_, you know." I go on in my normal voice, "Your father is convinced you're a boy. I'm not even in my second trimester and he's already picked out your name. That's him, though: So very stubborn and never admitting that he might be wrong. Then again, he rarely ever is. Your father is a genius and I can't wait for you to meet him. In fact, I can't wait to meet you…my sweet little Hamish. Do you like that name? You're father picked it, but like I said, we don't know if you're a boy yet. Why, then, do I feel so comfortable calling you Hamish already? Maybe your daddy's right, it wouldn't surprise me."

To my own surprise, I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I think the reality of oncoming parenthood has hit me. I'm going to be a mom and Sherlock is going to be a dad; it's surreal and utterly exciting. This will change our lives, no doubt, but I hope that Sherlock won't feel the need to take less work. If there is one thing I definitely can't handle, it's a bored Sherlock Holmes; He's worse than a newborn. I can see it now: Sherlock Holmes, seated at his microscope, bouncing a baby boy on his lap while he's dissecting a cow tongue. I chuckle at the thought then return to rubbing my belly:

"You're going to love your daddy, Hamish, from the moment you see him." I say, "That's what happened to me. He's odd, that's for sure, but he's the most brilliant man you'll ever come across. He's going to look out for you and I, he always will. He's our guardian angel, Hamish, and I can't wait for you to meet him." I then turn my head to stare toward the windows: "Hurry home, Sherlock," I whisper, "Please. Hurry home, safely."

0o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It's felt like hours have gone by since John left.

Where is he?

Why haven't I heard from him?

I pace around the living room, Sherlock's robe flowing behind me like some sort of cape, and running my fingers through my hair. Goodness, I must look like a proper Holmes right now.

"Yoo hoo." Mrs. Hudson says, gently knocking on the doorframe, "Sorry, am I interrupting?"

"No, no, not at all." I reply, finally taking a seat in Sherlock's arm chair, "Come on in."

Mrs. Hudson enters the room fully and takes a seat on the couch; "I just wanted to keep you company, dear." She says, "You seemed so stressed when I brought up your tea. Have you heard from the boys?"

"No, not a word." I reply, "I tried calling Sherlock's cell but I kept getting a busy signal, same with John's. Do…do you think they're alright?"

"Of course, dear," she says with a comforting smile, "If I've learned one thing from all my years of known your husband, it's that he will always be alright in the end, no matter how hectic or hopeless it all may seem."

I give her a warm smile and nod; "you're right." I reply, "But I wish he would just call me, or text, or something, just so I know."

As if to answer my request, Mrs. Hudson and I hear the street door slam shut. I practically jump out of the chair and book it down the stairs. John is at the foot of the stairs, back to me, with his hand still on the door handle. He looks like a statue, why's he standing so still?  
"John," I exclaim, heading down to greet him, "thank God, you're okay!" He slowly turns around and I quickly wrap my arms around him for a hug: "What happened? Tell me everything." I say, "Was it Moriarty? We're we right?"

John doesn't reply. He only just holds me in return and hides his face on my shoulder, giving off deep shaky breaths. Is he…crying?

"John, you okay?" I ask, gently rubbing his back, "What's wrong?" Suddenly, I notice something very off about this scene: "John, where's Sherlock?" His hold on me only tightens and he slowly shakes his head. A giant lump begins to develop in my throat as I fear for the worst: "John, where is he?"

"Elfie, I'm sorry." He whispers, "I…I don't know how or-or why…He just did it right in front of me and I can't wrap my mind around…Jesus, I can't."

"John, you're scaring me." I say, finally pulling away to look him face to face, "What are you talking about? Is Sherlock okay?" The normally brave and strong army doctor's eyes are red with held back tears and I can see the hurt and complete sadness in his gaze. "Where's Sherlock?" I ask one more time.

"Fee," John breathes out, "He's…Sherlock…Elfie he's gone."

"Gone?" I ask, "You mean, he left? To hide, right? He…He needed to protect himself. That makes sense actually and so…" I stop as soon as I notice John's shaking head. I place a hand on my heart as my breathing becomes a bit heavier. No, he doesn't mean gone in the other sense. Not in the much darker and morbid sense, no. Not my Sherlock. That couldn't have happened.

"Elfie," John tries again, clearing his throat, "he's…God, I'm so sorry, Fee."

"John, just say it." I breathe out, "Please. Just tell me the truth. Is he…God, did he…John, just tell me."

"He's dead, Elfie" John lets out in small whisper, "I watched him an-and I…God, the blood and…I took his pulse and there wasn't one. Elfie, I'm so sorry."

I didn't even hear the words coming out of John's mouth, not after his first statement. I just gaze into his eyes, hoping to find some sort of sign that he's lying to me. He has to be, but why would he? No, John can't be telling the truth. Sherlock can't be dead. That's just not possible. My knees start to wobble and my whole world seems to be crashing in on me. Hot tears fall from my eyes and it feels as if someone's just punched me in the throat. Everything seems to be unreal and I cant' seem to focus.

Sherlock's dead.

No, that can't be true. It just can't.

Not my Sherlock.

"No," I manage to say, "John, please tell me your lying. For once, tell me that this isn't happening. Tell me that he's going to come home later tonight an-and that he just has to lie low right now from Moriarty or-or the police. Tell me that he's going to come home and…God, just don't tell me I've lost him."

Finally giving, I practically fall into John's arms and sob uncontrollably into his jumper: "Please God, no!" I cry, clutching onto John, "Not Sherlock! Not him, John! It can't be him! Please!" John tightly holds me in return and begins to rub his hands up and down my back.

In my mind's eye, I can see Sherlock: every face, every expression, every time I ever laid eyes on him. From the day Janice walked him into my office:

"_Pleasure," this Mr. Holmes character says, extending his leather gloved hand out to me. _

When he first called me his friend:

"_There's no one I can relate to here. Well, except...maybe you."_

"_Really?"_

"_Of course. If you haven't noticed, I hold you…I hold you in very high regard."_

The night we became a couple:

"_I want to share that affection with you, Elfie Stegerson and it has taken me far to long to realize it. I'm…scared by this feeling I'll admit it. However, I would be more than happy to share it with you…if you are willing to let me try. All I ask is for you to be patient with me; I hurt you before, and I will do everything in my power to not make that mistake again. I…I love you."_

Up until this morning:

"_I love you, my brilliant genius."_

"_I love you, my darling, darling girl. Now, go."_

That's the last thing he said to me. The last time I will ever hear his voice. The last time he will ever call me his darling, darling girl. He's gone. I've lost him. The one and only person, who had taken my heart and made me feel like I was whole, is gone.

"Elfie," John whispers, his voice cracking. I slowly lift my head and gaze up at him, half hoping it to be Sherlock's face. Very slowly, John releases me and takes my hand into his. With his free hand, he digs through his jean pocket and pulls out a small object. John slowly turns my hand over, palm up, and sets the object directly in the middle of it. It's a silver ring: Sherlock's ring.

I cover my mouth with my free hand and gently fold my fingers over the ring. The tears come out in a free flow now and hide my face in John's jumper again: "He can't do this, John." I cry, "He can't leave."

"I know," John soothes, holding me again and beginning to cry, "I know."

I close my eyes and try to remove myself from this moment.

There is not a thing the world that can comfort me now because my whole world is gone.

My Sherlock Holmes is gone.


	9. Chapter 9: You Are Your Daddy's Son

_**Hello Lovelies!**_

_**So since you have all given me wonderful responses, I've decided to take this story in a sort of new direction. But I don't want to give too much away. I have a new plan that I'm very pleased with and I hope you all will be too. This chapter is a bit rough because of that, but it will get better I promise. **_

_**That being said…Hamish will be born in this chapter. Before you start with the "Whoa, Sherlock isn't back yet! How could you? Nooooo!" just read. You'll see what I did. *Wink wink*I will say this though; you can't write Sherlock stories without Sherlock.**_

_**Thanks as always for the follows, favorites, and comments. **_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much Love and Many thanks**_

_Chapter 9: You Are Your Daddy's Son_

Time has gone by at a snails pace.

Everything is bleak and a tad painful.

It's because he's no longer here; it's because I don't have Sherlock.

The funeral was small and quiet. John and I stayed by each other's sides the entire time. We're all that we've got now and there is no one in the world I'd rather have by my side, helping me get through this. Besides us, in attendance was Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, who was kind enough to be there despite the Yard's recent accusations toward Sherlock and, unfortunately, Mycroft.

"I don't want him here," I hissed to John when I saw the elder Holmes brother walk toward the gravesite to join our small congregation.

"He's family," John replied, hooking my hand onto his arm, "I know it's hard for you, but just for one day, remember that you two are both Holmes'."

"It's hard to think of him as family when's he's part of the reason we're here." I whispered back.

"My deepest condolences, Elfie," Mycroft said when he approached John and I, "I do hope that, in light of this tragedy…"

"Don't," I had said, "Please, don't." And those were the only words I spoke to my brother-in-law that day.

The press wanted in on the whole funeral service, but thankfully Mycroft was able to keep them at bay. That was probably his attempt at apologizing for what he did to his own flesh and blood. It doesn't take the sting away though. I still can't believe that he was the one who told Moriarty everything about Sherlock. I'll admit that I hold him partially responsible for my husband's death, but John is right; Mycroft is family. One day, I may be able to forgive him. But I don't see it in the upcoming future.

That article was published, along with the press' 'flashy' new headline: _"Suicide of Fake Genius: Fraudulent Detective Takes His Own Life."_

Suicide.

John told me what happened at St. Bart's: the rooftop, Sherlock's phone call, and the whole lot. None of it really makes sense to me, though. Why would Sherlock jump? He seemed fine when I last saw him. Sure, a little off, but not even close to what one would consider suicidal. I'm convinced there was some other forces at play, something that only Sherlock knew about it.

Was it Moriarty? Probably.

Could the out come have been avoided? I pray to God that it could have been.

John has graciously decided to stay at 221b with me. "I promised Sherlock that I would look after you and the baby," he told me, "and that's what I'm going to do. It's the least I could do for my best friend." This whole ordeal has been so hard on him. Sherlock was John's best friend, the man who saved him from a dull life and made him a human being again after the war. In away, John's grieving is much the same as mine; we both lost our other half the day Sherlock died. Neither of us will be the same, nor find any person or anything that will fill that gap.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks turned into months.

We went through Sherlock's things and decided what we should keep or donate to the lab, you know, things like that. I personally wanted to keep the real important things that reminded me of him: his laptop (I never dare to use it), his violin (always on the bedside table to remind me of his playing), and his blue dressing gown (I wear it every chance I get). People say that getting rid of, or selling the affects of a deceased love one is part of the moving on process. Maybe I don't want to move on. To me, moving on means forgetting.

I will never forget Sherlock.

221b has sort of transformed. Instead of science equipment and miscellaneous papers strewn about, one could actually see the hardwood floor of the living room. The kitchen no longer looks like a laboratory, but rather like any old kitchen. The bedroom I use to share with my husband is still the same, with the addition of a blue crib set up in the corner. Sherlock wanted the baby to share a room with us and so that's how it will be. It will be nice not to sleep in a lonely room; sure, the baby's cries may keep me up all night but at least I won't be alone.

The pregnancy has gone over well and Hamish is growing healthily, ready to be born at any minute. Yes, the baby is in fact a boy; I'm not surprised. John was a bit taken back by how calm I was when I got the result:

"You seem…indifferent." He had said.

"No, I'm happy." I replied, trying (but of course failing) to keep calm, "It's just…I already knew."

"How?"

"Sherlock."

John has been my only doctor during the pregnancy thus he performed the ultrasound. I don't trust anyone else with my baby's life and I feel like if I went to any other doctor, news about Hamish would get out to the press and that is the last thing I want to deal with right now. Besides, John is _my_ doctor and I can't imagine anyone else helping me with this…even though it's not what exactly he's trained in. The process has been hard and every check up was a cry fest for me. Sherlock wasn't there to see his child for the first time. He wasn't there to hear Hamish's heartbeat. He wasn't there to be at my side when I was sick or when I needed comfort.

He simply wasn't there.

It was in the afternoon of the 16th of January when it happened; when Hamish Arthur Holmes decided to enter the world. John was in the kitchen, making tea of course, and I was lying on the couch, trying to keep myself from going insane from boredom. I had felt a small pop then a feeling of dampness near my thighs. I raised myself up on my elbows and stared down at my lap. That's when the pain started: right away, no waiting. My son was ready to be born. "JOHN!" I had exclaimed and, seconds later, we were out of the flat and where we are now: In a taxi, on the way to the hospital.

I'm going to be a mom.

I bite my nails nervously during the cab ride from Baker Street and focus on my breathing. I'm anxious and a tad bit discouraged. John will be by my side, of course, but that isn't enough. The most important person in this whole situation will be missing. All I can think about is Sherlock: What would he say right now? What sort of comment would he make about all of this? God, I wish he were here.

From time to time, since his death, I can hear Sherlock's little side commentary as if he really were here to participate in conversations or just add his two senses on any matter. Sometimes I can even see him, standing beside me dressed in his signature black suit, covered up by that coat and having that blue scarf tightly wrapped about his neck. It feels like he's really there: that I can reach out and take his hand into my own. I know he's not real, but sometimes I give in to my hallucinations as if he was my conscious, guiding me through tough decisions. Sometimes, I even mentally have conversations with him. Perhaps I have truly gone mad, but I don't care. This is the closest I'll ever get to be with him again.

_"Nervous," _I hear my 'imaginary' Sherlock ask. He's sitting beside me, hand resting on my thigh, staring out the window like he use too when he was deep in thought…when he was still here.

_"Yes."_ I reply in my mind.

_"I don't see why you would be. The child will be fine and so will you; don't you trust John?"_

_ "Of course I do, but I'm afraid, Sherlock. I'm all alone in this."_

_ "John will be there."_

_ "You know what I mean."_

_ "Do I?"_

_ "Don't be such a smartass."_

"_Why not? You love it when I'm a smartass."_

"_Sherlock?"_

"_Mhm?"_

"_Why can't you really be here?"_

"Here we are then," The cabbie says, "St. Bartholomew's Hospital." John quickly pays the driver and gets me out of the car. Once outside, I take in a deep breath. I can see the headlines now: _'Internet Fraud's Widow Gives Birth in Same Hospital Where Husband Died.'_ It's so melodramatic but sort of peaceful. This was the last place I saw Sherlock alive so in a way, he'll be here in spirit.

God, what am I saying? I just need to get this child out of me.

"John," I moan, suddenly feeling the pain sharpen, "I…I can't do this."

"Yes you can, Fee, we're almost there." John coos, rubbing my back, "We'll get you all situated and it's going to be fine."

"John, this is…annoying." I say between my teeth, clutching my abdomen.

"Huh, you know, that's the exact thing I would imagine your husband saying right now," John replies, ushering me inside. I give him a weary smile; he's right. Sherlock would want no part of this pain. He would call it dull and a waste of time. Oh God, I wish he were here.

We check in at the front desk under the name Stegerson. Holmes would attract too much attention. A nurse is waiting with a wheel chair and wheels me off to a private room. This special treatment is most likely Mycroft trying to apologize yet again. John had told him which hospital I would be going to as well as which name I'd be checked in under. I didn't want him to know, but he is family; Hamish will be his nephew, despite my disliking. He should be involved.

Once I'm situated in the most uncomfortable bed imaginable, dressed in a blue hospital gown, John comes in and takes a seat at my side: "How's the pain?" he asks.

"Stupid," I groan, "but tolerable for now. When do I get an epidural?"

"Fee, you just went into labor," John says with a chuckle, "Epidural won't be for awhile. I'll have the doctor check how dilated you are when they get in."

"Well, aren't you going to be my doctor?" I ask, because a tad worried, "I mean, you have been the only doctor I've been going to, so shouldn't you be the doctor now?"

"Fee, do really want me delivering this baby? I was already bending my medical skills being your OBGYN, let alone…"

"But, John, I don't want anyone else. I don't _trust_ anyone else."  
"Fee…"

"No, John. Please?"

"Elfie, it's out of my hands. I'm sorry."

I roll my eyes in annoyance and run my hands through my hair. The pain has stopped for now, but I know that only means that when it comes back it will be even harder and worse. This whole thing will be painful…and frightening. Doubt begins to seep into my mind; Oh God, I'm giving birth. I'm not ready to be a single parent. I hardly know what I'm doing with my life now; How am I suppose to be there for this child? How am I supposed to be mother and father to this baby boy?

"John," I say, looking up at the ceiling, "I'm scared."

"Don't be, you'll be fine." My best friend assures me, taking my hand into his, "You're pregnancy was as perfect as they come. Your son and you are going to be okay."

"John…what if I can't do this?" I ask him, feeling my eyes well up with tears, "I…I can't raise a baby by myself. I…John, I don't know what to do."

"Fee, listen to me, you're going to be alright." He says with determination, "You are the strongest woman I know and…I know for a fact Sherlock is watching over you right now, making sure you stay strong. He would want you too be. He is...was my best friend and I know that he loved you more than anything. He always was your guardian angel, Elfie, you know that: you need to stay strong for him, okay."

"John, I want Sherlock." I softly cry, "he's…he's missing this."

"I know, Fee," he coos, placing a friendly kiss on my forehead, "I know." I slowly reach up and wrap my arms around John's neck. He holds me in return and we remain like this for countless minutes. I have never felt so afraid in my entire life; I use to be brave, but that was when I had Sherlock at my side. He was my rock, my world and my entire life; without him, I don't know what to do. I just miss him so much.

"I'm going to go find your doctor, okay?" John whispers when we finally part, "Maybe I can see what I can do about the delivery."

"Thank you," I say, leaning back against the pillows. About ten minutes later, the doctor comes in to assess the situation. He asks a few dull questions: how I'm feeling? On a scale of 1 to 10 how bad is the pain? Simple things like that. When he's done with his assessment, he tells me that delivery is close and that within a few hours; I should be ready to push. _'Jesus Christ,'_ I tell myself, _'This kid isn't wasting anytime.'_

The doctor and John step out to talk while a nurse (finally) gives me an epidural for the pain. Exhaustion starts to hit me and just for this moment, this bed feels heavenly. I don't know how long I slept but when I open my eyes, the windows of my room are dark. Yawning, I prop myself up on my elbows and quickly realize that the labor pain has returned with greater intensity. Really Hamish? You are not going to make this easy are you?

I squeeze my eyes tight and take in a deep breath: "Shit." I moan between clenched teeth, "John!" I reach out a hand out to him, but I get no response. "John?"

"Doctor Watson has stepped out for the moment," an unfamiliar voice replies. I open my eyes and turn my head to see a man, dressed in the normal hospital garb, closing the blinds. His broad back is too me and I can see strands of white blonde hair sticking out from under his teal cap. He reminds me of my Sherlock, but then again every man I see reminds me of my Sherlock. Besides, this man's voice is far too chipper and looks about half Sherlock's age. I'm just being dramatic; he's nothing like my Sherlock. Nobody ever will be.

"Um, I'm sorry, but…are you my doctor?" I ask, taking in slow breaths.

"No, no, just one of the nurses," he replies, "Doctor Watson will be back soon."

"So, he will be delivering? Thank god." I sigh with some relief. Mycroft probably pulled some strings; I guess I should thank him when this is over.

"Yes. You have a lot of trust in your husband, ma'am." The nurse replies, as he slowly turns around, revealing his young, pale face, "Most women don't ask for their own personal doctor."

"I'm not most women," I breathe out, slowly rubbing my swollen belly, "and John Watson's not my husband."  
"Oh, my apologizes." The nurse says adjusting his large, black-framed eyeglasses "Is he the baby's father?"

"No, just my friend." I reply, "The baby's father, my husband, he…He passed away." There's a sudden twinge in my heart; those words will never be easy to say.

"Oh. I am sorry, ma'am." He says with a hint of sadness and sheepishly looking down at his clipboard, "I shouldn't have brought it up. I was only trying to make conversation; sometimes that helps pass the time and takes your mind off of the pain."  
"It's fine. You were only doing your job." I wince as the pain intensifies a bit; "Maybe you were right about the talking," I say between my teethe, "How much longer now? Can I get another epidural?"

"I'll alert the doctor of your request," the nurse says with a small chuckle. "Anxious, ma'am?"

"You could say that." I reply. I then notice something rather odd about this nurse: "Um, I'm sorry, but…you do know that smoking isn't really the best habit to have for a practicing nurse, right?"

The male nurse gives me a look of pure surprise: "How…how did you know that I smoked?" he asks nervously.

"Your fingers are slightly tinted from tobacco and your uniform smells of smoke." I reply. Sherlock would be proud of me.

He furrows his brow then jots something down on his clipboard; "That's, um, very clever of you." He says, nervously as he walks over to check the monitors.

"Don't worry, I won't tell," I assure him, "I just…thought you'd like to know that I knew. Not that I mind, I just...sorry, I'm rambling."

"No, it's fine." He says, "If it helps to keep you comfortable, ma'am, then by all means ramble." He gives me a comforting smile and I smile right back.

"What's your name?" I ask, watching him take down notes.

"Basil." He replies, "Basil Altamont."

"Huh," I say, a bit confused, "Interesting name."

"No more interesting than yours, Mrs. Elfie Stegerson." He quips back, looking at my medical file. I raise my eyebrow at him and he quickly turns an embarrassed pink: "No, um, I'm sorry that came out as rather rude. My apologizes, ma'am."

"No, no, it's fine." I say, "I don't pretend for a second my name is normal."

Basil gives me a sheepish smile and returns to his notes: "So, boy or a girl?"  
"Boy. His name's Hamish."

"Ah, keeping the different names in the family, interesting. Was that your husband's name?"  
"No, no, but he picked it. He'll be named after…" Suddenly, I wince in pain and grab tightly to my sheets: "God, I'm sorry, but is it suppose to hurt this much?"

"It is childbirth, ma'am." Basil replies, rather matter of factly.  
"Can you stop calling me that? It makes me feel old. You can call me Elfie."

"Sorry, m…Elfie."

I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing. I can feel this getting harder and harder by the moment: "How old are you?" I ask, trying to keep my mind off the pain that is only getting worse.

"Twenty seven." He says proudly.

"And how many births have you helped with?"

"This will be my first."

"Brilliant." I reply with a hint of sarcasm. Realizing how rude that may of come out, I open my eyes and look to the male nurse. He has turned away, discouraged. "I'm…I'm sorry." I say, "You shouldn't take my coldness personal. I'm just that kind of a person; I didn't use to be, but…well, things happened."

"I see," he says, looking down at his feet, "but I understand the doubt."

"No, no, I don't doubt you at all," I go on, "I just…OH GOD!" I suddenly scream out in pain and clutch onto my stomach. It's happening. It's really happening. I'm about to become a mother.

"Mrs. Stegerson?" Basil asks, coming to my side, "Are…are you having contractions?"

"WHAT DO YOU THINK?" I yell, "GO GET JOHN!" I must have frightened the poor boy because he flew out of the room faster then the speed of light. Everything seems to blur together; the room is spinning and my head is pounding. Sweat is already starting to develop on my brow and tears well up in my eyes. The pain is indescribable. If anything it feels like every pain that could be inflicted on the human body is turned up a thousand notches. I thought the epidural was supposed to help with this?

"Oh God, Sherlock." I cry, "Where the hell are you?"

I'm vaguely aware of Basil returning to the room with a few other medical professionals. All of them are now dressed in the proper delivery uniforms and I feel like I'm in the middle of one of those medical dramas on television. They begin to speak some medical jargon to one another as another wave of contractions hits me. God, this is unbearable.

"Fee? Can you hear me?" John says, coming to my side. He gently grabs my arm and I look to him with tear filled eyes.

"John, I want Sherlock." I whisper, "I…I can't do this alone."

"Yes, you can." John assures me, kissing my forehead, "I need you to listen me, alright? Just listen to my voice; we are going to do together and I'm going to get you and Hamish out of here safely. I promise."

I take in a sharp breath and quickly nod. John then gives some directions to a couple of the nurses, using his captain's voice. They quickly disperse to their appropriate positions; I'd be more impressed with Doctor Watson if I wasn't in so much pain. I scrunch up my face and quickly grab the hand of the nurse closest to my bedside. Turns out its Basil. That's convenient.  
"Don't you fret," he says, taking hold of my hand and setting his free one on my back, "this…this will be over soon."

"Easy for you to say," I breathe out, "you're not the one giving birth." Basil chuckles and gently rubs my back. For a first timer, he is extremely calm. Lucky him.

"Baby's crowning." John says; his voice remaining amazingly calm and collected, "Okay, Elfie, when I say so I'm going to need you to push."

"John, I'm scared!"  
"I know, but I need you to trust me. Ready? Okay…push!"

I give it my all and squeeze poor Basil's hand for dear life. The pain only intensifies. Dear Lord, this is ridiculous.

"Excellent, Fee!" John coaches, "Alright…again!"

I push again with all of my weighing strength. I close my eyes and try to imagine something, anything really, that is more pleasant then this. A particular image enters my mind, and I'm not at all surprised at what it is: My Sherlock, kneeling by my side, holding my hand and gently rubbing my back like he would. He's here, in this room, just like when he was in the taxi earlier.

"_You can do this, Elfie Marie,"_ _he whispers, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles,_ _"Just keep going."_

"You're doing beautifully, Elfie." John calls out, "Again. Push!"

I let out a loud cry and use all of my remaining strength. I start to see red and my body starts to shake slightly. This is too much. I can't take it much longer.

"_I can't do this, honey. I can't."_

"_Yes, you can." Sherlock coos, "You are my darling, darling girl. You can do anything; I've always believed that. Just one more, my darling: One more and our son will be here. Just push."_

"I can se him Fee! Last one: Push!"

"_Push!"_

Mustering strength from the deepest core of my body, I give out one final push. Suddenly, a cry fills the room. It's my son's cry. My heart fills with indescribably joy and happiness. I have a son. I'm a mother. I've done it.

"_Well done, Mrs. Holmes." That wonderful baritone voice whispers to me, "I told you that you could do it. When have I ever been wrong?" _

I open my eyes in hopes to see my husband at my side, but am slightly disappointed to only see young Basil there instead. I give him a weary smile and he smiles right back. Through the thick frame of his glasses, I can see that his eyes are red with held back tears. There's a different look about him, a familiar look.

"Th-thank you," I whisper. He nods to me then slowly stands to help John.

"You are very welcome, Mrs. Holmes." He replies, giving my hand one final squeeze before walking off.

Through blurry eyes, I turn my head to watch as John lifts up the most beautiful child I have ever seen and hands it over to a waiting nurse. Feeling a humongous sense of relief, I fall back against the pillows and let out a huge sigh.

"Elfie, you were wonderful," John says, rushing to my side, "How you feeling?"  
"I saw him, John." I whisper, looking around a bit.

"Wait until you hold him," he says, taking both my hands into his, "One of the nurses it cleaning him now and…"

"No, John, I saw _him_." I clarify, "I saw Sherlock."

John's mouth turns to a small frown as he runs a hand through my sweaty hair: "I figured that's whom you were talking too," he whispers.

I bite my lip and look up at the ceiling; I thought that conversation was in my head. I certainly heard Sherlock's voice but I didn't think I was actually replying out loud. I know he wasn't really here.

"He…He would be so proud of you." John goes on, trying his best to hide his tears, "So very proud of you."

"You think?" I ask

"Of course." John replies, giving me a friendly kiss on my forehead.

"Doctor Watson." One of the nurses says from the foot of the bed. John turns his head and rises to take the small, white bundle from them. A small smile grows across my face as John returns to my side, gently cradling the bundle.

"Would you like to meet your son?" he asks with a smile. I chuckle and hold my weary arms out to receive him. John carefully sets the bundle in my hold and I bring it close to my chest. There, popping his little head out from the white cocoon and cooing happily is my Hamish. He is beyond beautiful. Already, there is a thin layer of dark hair on his little head. His face is perfectly round and his tiny, pink lips are actually rather dainty with his perfect cupid's bow.

"Hello, sweetheart." I whisper, gently stroking his cheek, "I'm…so very glad to finally meet you." A pudgy little hand worms its way out of the blankets and grips onto my fingers. Very slowly, Hamish opens his little eyes and stares right back at me; they sparkle beautiful, sea foam green.

They're his father's eyes.

"Oh, look at you, Hamish," I say; unable to hold back my small tears, "You…you look just like your daddy."

Hamish blinks and makes a small noise, almost like a giggle. I place a soft kiss on his forehead. For this moment, I am happy: the happiest I have been in a long time. This child, this little boy is my world now. Sherlock's final gift to me, I suppose. That gap in my heart, where my husband use to reside is full once again and it is all because of this boy.

Hamish Arthur Holmes: Son of the late, genius-consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

He is my perfect son.

Hours later, after I unwillingly had to let go of Hamish and sleep, I wake up to the sight of John Watson looking into the small crib that's been setup beside my bed. "Hey," I say quietly as to not wake Hamish.

John turns his head and gives me a small smile: "Hey," he replies, "how you feeling?"

"Are you going keep asking me that until we get home?" I tease, "It's getting rather annoying."

"I'm only looking out for you," John replies with a chuckle, "You did just give birth to a 9lbs. baby boy."

I chuckle slightly and run a hand through my greasy hair: "Did you call Mrs. Hudson?" I ask, "She practically demanded that I tell her as soon as he was born."

"Yeah, I did." John says, taking a seat at the foot of my bed, "I even called your mum while you were sleeping; you owe me for that, by the way."

"She didn't try to flirt with you again, did she?"

"That's the thing: I don't really know." We both let out a laugh, which causes Hamish to stir and wake up. I quickly sit up, and John thankfully scoops my son up and passes him over to me.

"You're already getting a hang for this mothering thing," John says, returning to his spot.

"Maybe I was always meant to be a mom," I reply, stroking Hamish's soft cheek. He doesn't cry, just makes small cooing noises and stares up at me with those eyes: his father's eyes. The longer I look at him, the more I realize he looks just like Sherlock. I only wish they could meet.

"Fee?" John says, sounding nervous, "I…I have to tell you."

"Yes?" I ask, still not looking up from my son's face.

"I called Mycroft."

"Oh."

"I had too; Hamish is his nephew and all, not to mention, the only memory he-or any of us for that matter-has of his little brother."

"When will he be coming by?" I ask quickly to not linger on John's last comment.

"He said, whenever you'd permit him." John replies, "He wants to respect your wishes, but at the same time not be completely shut out of the boy's life. That is reasonable, Elfie."

"Fine." I sigh heavily and kiss Hamish's forehead, "It is the right thing to do, letting Mycroft see him. I just…I haven't forgiven him, John."

"I know, I know." John says, patting my leg, "Let's not talk about that, though, okay? This is a good moment; one we haven't had since…well, in a long time. Let's cherish it, alright."

I look up at my friend and we both smile. He's right; this is the brightest moment either of us have had since Sherlock died and it feels…right. I will always miss him and so will John, but maybe this little boy will help us both to move on. I made a promise to myself that I would tell Hamish all about how great his father was and I, in away, that's my way of coping. Sherlock's memory will always be there in our family, I will make sure of it.

"John," I say, "can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Fee," John says

"That male nurse who was in here; the blonde one. He was beside me during the delivery."

"Oh, yeah, that guy. He was whispering to you during the delivery, while you were calling out for Sherlock. He seemed to be really calm and collected; He even cut the umbilical cord, insisted on it really. A damn good nurse if you ask me. He sort of disappeared afterwards, don't know where he went."

"Well, I just wanted to know. Does anyone at this hospital know my real name? You know, does anyone know that I'm…Sherlock Holmes' wife?"

John furrows his brow in confusion: "No, Mycroft made sure of that." He says, "Hence why we checked in under your maiden name. We didn't want to attract attention. What's that got to do with that nurse?"

I look back at Hamish, now peacefully asleep but clutching onto my finger. Why would this male nurse, especially one who had never delivered a baby before, want to cut the umbilical cord? And he was talking to me? But I didn't here him…I only heard Sherlock's voice in my head.

"Fee, what's wrong?" John asks.

"Nothing, nothing really." I reply, "It's just…John, could you go check something for me?"

"Sure. What am I looking for?"

"A nurse by the name of Basil Altamont." I say, "That was his name." John gives me an assuring nod then exits the room to inquire at the front desk. To my surprise, he returns only mere moments later. "Well?" I ask.

"Fee, he…he doesn't exist." John replies, looking at me with the deepest confusion, "The woman at the front desk had never heard of him and there was no one on file under that name."

"But…we saw him." I point out, "He was right here."

"Well, why do you need to look him up?" John asks, "Did he do something wrong?"

"No, not at all. He was actually very helpful…very."

That imagine of this mysterious nurse returns to my brain as well as that familiar look he had about him. It doesn't make sense; if he wasn't a registered nurse, then how was he let in? And why would he come to my room and stay for the whole birth? Not only stay, but be my comforter as well. He was so helpful and kind: rubbing my back, holding my hand. It was almost like he knew exactly what I needed to calm down. It was like…he knew me.

"He called me Mrs. Holmes, John." I finally say, looking at my best friend with worried eyes, "Why would he call me Mrs. Holmes?"


	10. Chapter 10: Don't Stop Now Keep Going

_**Hello,**_

_**Yes, I'm doing this at the beginning again because I need to explain the oddity of this chapter. First off, it started as two chapters but I was not happy with them. Thus, I have decided to do a time jump in this chapter, meaning that I didn't write a month-by-month thing with Elfie raising Hamish on her own. I tried that and I was not happy with it…at all. Also I wanted to keep the cannon as true as possible which means, yes, Sherlock will not be there for Hamish's infancy. **_

_**On the brighter side, their reunion will be coming sooner rather than later.**_

_**I have developed a little, teeny tiny, wibbley wobbly, timey wimey case so that will be coming as well. (Not really wibbley wobbly, timey wimey, I just like using that phrase. I like Doctor Who. Sue me.) **_

_**Thanks as always you guys for all your love and support. The plot will become clearer, I promise.**_

_**XOXOX0**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_

_Chapter 10: Don't Stop Now Keep Going _

Hamish and I are released from the hospital the next morning and I am more than happy to head home to Baker Street. That mysterious nurse has made me feel a tad uneasy: who was he? What did he want with me? Did he even want anything with me? If Sherlock were here, he would figure it out in seconds. My detective skills, however, aren't as well tuned as his were. Perhaps, there was some obvious clue to that man's identity that I missed. It wouldn't surprise me; I was never really good at the whole taking in details thing.

Maybe I'll never know who Basil Altamont really was.

After John and I are safe and sound in 221b, I lie down on the sofa and lay my son comfortably on my chest. Hamish curls up into a little ball and falls asleep

"Well, he's happy," John chuckles, sitting down in his chair.

I smile and gently stroke my son's back; "He's big, John." I say, "Bigger than most newborns."

"Yeah, but there's nothing wrong with that."

"So says you; you didn't have to push him out." We look at one another and laugh, but quietly though so not to disturb the baby. I then realize the key component missing in this scene and my smile slowly fades; "Sherlock would have loved this," I say, half to myself, "I mean, he wouldn't admit to loving it, but this whole parenting thing…He seemed to be looking forward to it."

"Elfie," John says with a heavy sigh, "I know…I know you feel like you can't raise Hamish without Sherlock, but I assure you that you can."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I know you and I know how strong you really are. Elfie, I've seen you go through a lot of bad things in the surprisingly short time I've known you and you always managed to bring yourself back up again. This little boy is beyond lucky to have you to raise him; He'll look up to you, I know it."

I turn my head and look to John. He always knows exactly what to say and exactly the right time. He truly is amazing. After Sherlock's passing, I don't know what I would've done if I didn't have John by my side: "John, I want you to be Hamish's godfather." I say, holding back tears.

"Really?" John asks, a bit taken back.

"Of course, who else would it be? We did name Hamish after you, you know." I explain, "John, you are my best friend and Sherlock always wanted you to be apart of our family. He told me once, before we knew that I was pregnant, that if he and I were to ever have children, you would be just as important to them as we were. He…he would've asked you to be Hamish's godfather. It's what Sherlock wanted and so do I."

John closes his eyes and looks down at his lap; it's still hard for him to hear that Sherlock cared about him. They were brothers after all: not in blood, but in bond. They were the perfect team but now one is lost without the other. Just like me, I don't think John will ever truly move on from Sherlock. There is no one like him, and there never will be.

"Fee, I'm…I'm touched," he finally says, allowing his voice to crack a bit, "I would be honored to be Hamish's godfather." I smile at him and hold out my free hand for him to grab. He does so and places a friendly kiss on my knuckles: "I miss him, Elfie." He whispers.

"Me too, John." I reply, "Me too."

Over the next couple of weeks, there are visitors to 221b who want to meet little Hamish. The first, of course, is Mrs. Hudson. She actually came up the day we got home from the hospital:  
"Oh, Elfie, he's beautiful." She cries, cradling my giggling son in her arms.

"He is," I reply, sitting down in Sherlock's armchair, "His name's Hamish."

"Hello, little Hamish." She says, playfully poking his nose. Hamish lets out a small giggle and takes hold of her finger, studying it intricately.

"He likes to do that," John points out from his chair, "Study things."

"Of course he does." Mrs. Hudson says, "He is Sherlock's son, after all." I chuckle slightly and suck on my lower lip; she's right, of course. He may only be a few days old, but Hamish does look like Sherlock. His skin is that delicate pale tone, his eyes are that unique combination of blue and green, and even the peach fuzz of hair on his little head is that dark luscious color.

He is, very much so, Sherlock Holmes' son.

A few weeks later, surprisingly, Lestrade stops by. John was out to the store when he came by, which maybe is a good thing; I don't think John is ready to see anyone from the Yard, just yet. I heard the detective inspector coming up the stairs and, when he reached the archway to the living room, we just stare at one another. Neither of us knows what to say, or how to greet each other. It feels like we're complete strangers.

"I…I understand if you don't want me here," he finally says, nervously stepping into the living room, "I just thought…Well, I mean…You and Sherlock were like family to me and-No, I'm sorry, that's a bit much. What I'm trying to say is that-"

"Greg, it's alright." I reply, rising from the couch and giving him a hug, "Thank you for coming."

We haven't truly spoken since Sherlock's death because, I think, he feels partly responsible. Yes, he did arrest Sherlock on the kidnapping allegations, but only because he was forced to; Greg didn't know that that was all apart of Moriarty's plan. I don't hate him for what happened. After all, he did drop the charges against John for punching the police chief in the nose as well as keep Sherlock's name with the police as clear as possible. That, above all, is what I am most grateful for.

"So, um, where is the little man?" Lestrade asks when we part. I smile and show him too the small swing seat that is set up beside the couch; Hamish is fast asleep in it with his pudgy hands curled up under his chin…like a true Holmes.

"Oh, look at him," Lestrade whispers, kneeling down in front of Hamish, "he is the spitting image of his father already, my God."

"I know." I say, sitting down the couch, "That seems to be the first thing people notice about him."

"People?" Lestrade asks, "Who else have you told about him? I mean, not that you don't have a right to tell others about your child, but-Don't you think that, considering who his father is…was, he should be kept a secret?"

"Well, by people I mean John, Mrs. Hudson and my mother. They are the only people who've met Hamish. Mycroft…he hasn't come by yet." I bite my lower lip and there is an awkward silence. I honestly don't know why Mycroft hasn't seen his nephew yet. As mad as I am at him, I want him to meet Hamish. They are family, doesn't that mean something to Mycroft?

"Your, uh, mom flew in? That was nice of her." Lestrade says, breaking the tension.

"Contrary to popular belief, my mother does have a heart." I jest, "She apparently grabbed the first flight over right after John had called her. You know, she even offered to stay in London to help out. I, of course, told her that it wasn't necessary but the gesture still touched me. I told her that I'd be alright."

"And how are you…truly?" he asks, turning to face me, "Raising a kid all on your own and everything, can be a bit daunting."

"I'm fine, thank you." I answer, quite shortly, "Don't ask me that again."

"Oh, right." Lestrade says a bit taken back by my sudden coldness, "Do you want to…talk about it, maybe?"

"No."

"Not even just to…"

"No."

"Oh, well, then…"

"I mean…I'm tired of talking about it." I say, apologetically, "I don't mean to be so cold, Greg. It's only that…well, for seven months, I had to deal with Sherlock being suddenly taken away from me. No, he wasn't taken…he left. I was two months pregnant and he-he decided to leave me." I feel the tears developing in my eyes and the emotions I've kept bottled inside since my husband's death start to break free; "If I could go back to that day, Greg, I'd ask him why. Why did he do it?" I sniffle, looking down at my lap, "Why would he take his own life like that? That wasn't like him; that wasn't my Sherlock."

"Hey," Lestrade sighs, sitting beside me and setting a comforting arm around my shoulders, "I miss him too, you know. He was…the greatest man I've ever known and I won't stop believing in him, I promise you that. If there is anything you and this little boy ever need, you let me know. I owe it to Sherlock's memory." I look the detective inspector in the eyes and I can see the truth in his gaze. "Here," he quickly says, getting up, "I brought you something."

He goes to the living room archway and picks up the large brown bag he had left there when he walked in; "It took a bit of negotiating, but I managed to get them away from evidence." He explains, handing me the bag, "They are all cleaned, of course. I just thought that, well, if anyone needed these it would be you."

I dry my eyes on my sleeve then take the bag. However, when I remove the contents, I immediately start to tear up again. It's Sherlock's coat and scarf, looking as fresh as the day I last saw him wearing them. Running my fingers over the fabric reminds of my love's touch, his scent…everything. "Thank you, Greg." I cry, "Thank…Oh, God." I bury my face in the coat and start to sob again. Lestrade sits beside me again and pulls me in for a friendly embrace.

"I miss him too," he whispers, "I will always miss him."

That night, I walk around the bedroom, dressed in my grey pajamas and Sherlock's blue dressing gown, cradling my infant son. A storm is brewing outside and he can't seem to settle down. There is a bright flash of lightening and another rumble of thunder, accompanied by the howling wind. Hamish lets out a cry and nuzzles up as close to my chest as he possibly can.

"Hey, its alright." I coo, "Mommy's here." Hamish lets out small hiccup and ceases his crying. His sea foam eyes stare up at me, pleading me to make the storm go away. Those eyes. Just like his father's. Just like Sherlock's. I begin to hum 'Moon River' to him and he immediately starts to drift back to sleep; it is, after all, his lullaby. I sing it to him every night, just like I promised Sherlock I would. I gently lay Hamish back into his crib. Beside his head is Sherlock's scarf. He clings to it every night; it's his security blanket, his favorite toy, and his world. It's almost as if he knows it been his father's.

I watch his little face as he drifts off into a dream. I place a soft kiss on his forehead then crawl into my bed. I close my eyes and I can see my Sherlock, dressed in his grey t-shirt and pajama pants, is lying beside me.

"_You see, I told you so," he whispers, stroking my arm, "You are a wonderful mother."_

"_Yes, but he needs a father too," I reply, "He needs you."_

"_You tell him about me, don't you?"_

"_Yes, of course. Every chance I get."_

"_And is he or is he not clutching my scarf right now?"_

"_He is."_

"_So I don't know what you're making a big fuss about. I'm with him all the time, don't you see? He'll know me, you can make sure of that. My memory won't fade because of you and Hamish. I'll always be by your side; you know that, my darling. I love you."_

"_Sherlock?"_

"_Yes?"_

"_Why did you do it?"_

"_Go to sleep, love. I'll see you in the morning."_

_ "But you won't."_

_ "But I will."_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Weeks turned into months.

Months, shortly, turned into years.

John's life and mine have begun to move on. He even started seeing someone, which is a huge step forward for him. Me, I don't want to start seeing anyone because I don't want any one in that way. I can't stress it enough; No one will ever be my Sherlock.

Hamish has grown into the most wonderful toddler, the spitting image of his father. For almost being 2, he has exceeded his development milestones: stared walking on his own at 8 months, solving his little puzzle toys with easy by his first birthday and has even begun to formulate little sentences. I'm not surprised really. Who else, but Sherlock Holmes' son would advance that quickly?

I'm still working at the museum and quite happily as well. True, everyone expected me to be in a slum, but how could I be? No one knew what I had to endure the day I lost Sherlock, but I was in no rush to linger on those emotions, not when I had a kid on the way. Mrs. Hudson claims I still haven't had a 'good, long, cry' over Sherlock and, to an extent, she's right. I have a son now, though, and I must be strong for him. No more tears. No more wishing that he'll walk through the doors of Baker Street and…no! No more!

On this foggy, January 6th morning, the kettle hisses as a signal of its readiness. Hamish is sitting in his high chair, happily babbling away and clapping his hands together while Mrs. Hudson rushes in and turns the heat off and fixes herself a cup of tea.

"I'll have to work sort of late tonight, Mrs. Hudson," I say, pulling on Sherlock's long black coat and entering the kitchen, "John is at the clinic until about 6 and Hamish will be with Greg today until about 4-"

"Never you mind that, dear, he can stay here with me." She replies setting her cuppa down and walking over to the highchair, "What do you say to that, Hamish? Would you like to stay with me today?"

"Wit Nan!" he squeals, reaching his arms up to signify that he wants up and out of the chair, "Up, mum, up!"

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson," I say, lifting my anxious boy up into my arms, "you don't have to spend all day with him; I don't want you to get worked up."

"It'll be fine," she assures me, "now get going before you're late."

Mrs. Hudson is too good to me. Despite allowing me to stay at Baker Street while only paying half the rent, she's become a second mother to Hamish as well as to me. I'll admit, being a working, single mother is not an easy act but I manage…sort of. Without Mrs. Hudson, I'd be a complete wreck and unfit to raise Hamish; the woman is a saint.

"Alright you," I say, adjusting Hamish on my waist, "You be good for Nan, alright?"

"Oh-tay." Hamish replies with an excited nod.

"And if you're good, I'll tell you an extra bedtime story tonight." I promise,

"Bow Dah?" he asks, his eyes getting wide with excitement.

"Yes, of course about dad." I say with a proud smile, "Which one do you want to hear so I can remember when I get home?"

"Big dog!"

"The one about the big dog? That might be a bit too scary for you, little one."

"Not-uh, Dah get big dog in da' end."

"That's right, he did." I say with a warm smile, "Well, we'll see when I get home okay? Now, give you're mummy a smooch before I go."

Hamish reaches his chubby arms out to grab my cheeks and giggles. We give each other a quick, sloppy kiss then I set him back down his high chair.

"I love you, Hamish," I say as I rub his curly mop of hair. _'It would be,'_ I think, _'he's got the eyes, so why wouldn't he have the hair?'_ "I'll call when I'm on my way home," I call back, as I make my way downstairs, "Bye and thank you Mrs. Hudson."

The streets of London are, as usual, busy with taxis and people rushing to work. Tourists stand on street corners, trying to find their way to the biggest attraction. Businessmen and women are lost in the world of their cell phones and or newspapers. Locals are just passing by without a care. Life is normal; no obscure individuals with mysterious plans afoot. All is calm and…normal. It's taken at least a year for life directly outside 221B Baker Street to be like this.

After Sherlock's death, reporters with cameras would be stationed outside the flat, daily, trying to get a glimpse of me in distress. They'd yell out their questions while I'd squeeze through to reach the door:

"_What did he say to you, Ms. Stegerson?"_

"_Did he tell you about Moriarty?"_

"_Who's Richard Brook?"_

"_Why did he do it?"_

I desperately wanted to turn around and scream at them to shut up, but I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of a headline. Eventually, just like the headlines claiming Sherlock to be a fraud, the reporters went away; got bored, I guess. I never let them see Hamish and as far as I'm concerned, only a select few know he exists. I'd like to keep it that way.

I shove my fists into my pockets as I wait for my ride. Its mornings like this that I take in how odd of a place Baker Street is. It is just a little pocket of London to most, but to me it's a safe haven. There are not suspicious neighbors, at least, not anymore. Those assassins Moriarty had hired to "get" Sherlock are long gone (the only fact the papers got right out of that whole mess) and the flat where they all stayed is abandoned. Nobody goes near it. Why: who the hell knows. I glance over at the flat and wonder for myself. Why is that flat empty? Surely somebody owns it, so why not rent it out. It would be nice to have neighbors, I guess. At least, it would be nice to have neighbors that aren't trying to kill you every other day. Maybe even some little ones so Hamish could make a few friends. That would be nice.

Sherlock would call it dull.

I glance down at my wristwatch: 8:25am, my ride should be here soon. I look back at the abandoned flat to wonder some more and am taken back by what I see. There is a silhouette in the window. I blink to make sure my lack of sleep isn't fooling my eyesight; nope, there is definitely someone there. Curious, I look both ways and cross the street to get a better look.

It is a tall figure and thin by the looks of it. A squatter? No, impossible. The doors are all padlocked and boarded up tight so nobody could get inside. The figure isn't moving. Is it looking at something? Is it looking at me? As I get closer and closer to the window, a hand suddenly appears on the glass. I nearly fall over at the sight; Shit, it is looking at me. I squint to see if I can catch a glimpse of a face, but the window is too dirty and dark. Slowly, I raise my hand in response to it's. As it presses against the glass, I can see that the figure's hand is caked in…blood. Yes, that is definitely blood.

I can feel the color fall from my cheeks as my heart begins to race. Who is this? Why are they hurt? Is that their blood?

"Hey!" I call out, tapping the window, but just as soon as it appeared, the figure is gone, "Wait! Come back! I want to help you!"

"Fee!" a familiar voice calls out, but I ignore it. I'm much more interested in who was that in the window. "Fee?" The voice calls again. A hand is placed on my shoulder and I shutter in surprise. "You alright?" I face the speaker: Mary Morstan, my co-worker and, more importantly, girlfriend to John Watson.

She was hired at the museum as a secretary but it's only a part time job for her. She also works in the pediatrics section of the clinic John works at; it's where they met. Mary's often been Hamish's babysitter and has become a very close friend of mine. It's been so long since I've had a genuine gal pal to talk with and I couldn't ask for anyone better than Mary.

"You see that?" I blurt out, pointing to the window.

"What? The dark, padded up window?" she replies with a smirk.

"No, no, no," I retort, rather annoyed, "there was someone there!"

"In the window?"  
"Yes, Mary, in the window."

"Right…Get much sleep, Elfie?" she jokes.

I roll my eyes and heavily sigh. "Forget it," I say, turning away, "maybe I'm just losing it."

Mary looks at me then back at the window; "You really did see something?"

"Forget it. Come on, we'll be late." I stuff my hands back into my coat pockets and head to Mary's parked car across the street. She quickly follows me and once in the car, we are on our way. As we drive past, I look at that window. For a split second, the figure returns then quickly vanishes again.

"Okay, talk to me," Mary says, "What was that back there? John said that that place was all boarded up. How could you have seen someone?"

"I…I don't know." I admit, biting my nails, "It was a person: a tall, skinny, person. I couldn't make out a face, but it was definitely male. He seemed like he was sick or hurt."

"How can you tell that from just a silhouette?" she asks, becoming more intrigued.

"The shoulders; too broad to be a woman, but not immensely large to be a healthy man." I explain, "Not to mention the blood on his hand."

"Blood?" Mary exclaims, "Oh Lord! Shouldn't we call the police?"

"And tell them what? That a creepy shadow is living in the building across from 221b? Mary, I know what I saw, but I am also aware of how ridiculous it sounds."

Mary bites her lower lip and stares at the road ahead: "Well, can't…you figure it out on your own?" she asks in a quiet voice.

I furrow my brow and look at her confused; "How do you mean?"

"Well, John said-to be quite honest, I've noticed it too-that you do that thing."

"Thing?"

"That thing your husband used to do; that detective thing. Hamish does it sometimes too, I've noticed. He'll pick up an object, study it for a short while, and then immediately figure out what it is and how to use it. He's very bright."

"He's his father's son." I look out the window and gaze at the world passing by: "What are you getting at, Mary?" I ask.

"I'm just saying that maybe you should dig into this mystery, window man." She says, "Solve that case, as it were. You and John use to do that all the time so why not…"

"No." I quickly say, "I'm not a detective. That was Sherlock's job and I…I've put that life behind me."

"But…"  
"Mary, can we talk about something else? Please?"

She gives off a heavy sigh then looks out to the road; "I wish I could have met him, you know," she says, turning a corner, "Your husband: The great Sherlock Holmes. John talks so highly of him and so do you."  
"He was the love of my life," I whisper, still gazing out the window, "and I miss him. That's all I'm going to say for now."

"I know. I'm sorry I pushed the topic," she says, but think it over Fee Maybe there is something to this man in the window."

"Maybe, but I'm not delving into it."

"Why?"

"Because, like I've always told people, I'm not Sherlock Holmes."


	11. Chapter 11: Meeting at the Diogenes Club

_Chapter 11: Meeting at the Diogenes Club_

The day flows by uneventfully. Mary has sent me the occasional texts of _'Any ideas on who/what that was this morning?'_ and _'Tell John; you two should look into it'_ but I choose to ignore them. I'm not in the mood to deal with my delusions right now, let alone tell John about it. If I told him what I saw, he would want to take me to his next therapy session with him. He went back into therapy after Sherlock's death and it has done him good. He has asked me before if I would like to sit in with him on an appointment, you know, just if I needed to talk to anyone. I told him that it wouldn't be necessary and that if I really needed to talk with someone, I'd let him know.

As of right now, though, my mental health is the least of problems. I want to know who or what that figure was, but I can't get involved. I'm a mother now and the last thing I need is to open up a mystery. I just need to focus on work.

Goodness, I sound like Sherlock.

My normal shift goes by at a dull pace. I sit at my desk: typing away at my computer, answering emails, prepping the newest exhibits' lectures. Occasionally, I will walk around and readjust the books and historical artifacts I have decorated about my office. When I reach the shelf it is safely displayed on, I always take hold of my 1892 diary of Joseph Bruce Ismay and gently examine it. It's my favorite piece of my eclectic collection because _he _gave it to me.

He. My Sherlock.

A small smile grows across my face as I trace my fingers along the binding of the book. A memory stirs in my mind:

"_Is…is this really?"_

"_The 1892 diary of Joseph Bruce Ismay, yes. You seem to have a keen interest the Titanic tragedy so I thought it would be a suitable gift. I acquired it from a source in the British government. It was a tough argument, but I eventually convinced him that it would be safe in your hands."_

"_Oh my God, this…this is amazing! Thank you so much!"_

I remember exactly how he looked that day; so handsome, so sweet, so nervous about giving me a present. He never was confident about his romantic efforts, but surprising that's what made them even more romantic. A small tear rolls down my cheek; it's been three years since his death and it still feels like it was only yesterday I kissed him good-bye at the lab. I miss him so much. I wonder what he would say about the figure in the window; Probably would figure it out in a matter of seconds, my genius. God, I miss him.

When noon rolls around, I poke my head out of my office to see if I'm in the clear to lock my door for an hour so I can catch up on sleep. Hamish had a rough night and thus so did I. A few minutes of rest, that's all I need. Maybe then I'll stop thinking about that figure this morning. To my surprise, but not my displeasure, I see a familiar face coming toward me: "Hello stranger." I say, opening my arms out to my guest.

"Hello Elfie," Doctor John Watson greets, wrapping me up in a tight embrace.

I hold him in return and place a friendly peck on his cheek: "What brings you to my neck of the woods, Doctor?" I say, facing him properly but keeping my hands on his biceps, "I thought you were stuck at the clinic all day."

"Eh well, I was in the neighborhood, finishing up a house call, then I thought _'Wonder if Elfie would mind me dropping in for a bit?_'" John replies with a smirk, "That is, if your not tired of seeing my face."

"Of course I'm not tired of it. We're flat mates remember? If I was tired of you, I'd have kicked you out long ago." I tease, "Come on in."

John nods and follows me back into my office. Every chance he gets, John joins me for my lunch break. It's sort of an alone time for us…strictly as friends of course; what with me always chasing after Hamish around the flat and he going out with Mary all the time, John and I rarely ever have time to ourselves. It is kind of a shame really; He is my best friend after all. I need to spend more time with him.

"Have you ever thought about re-decorating?" he asks, taking a seat in the chair in front of my desk.

"Huh?" I reply, returning to focus on my computer work.

"Don't get me wrong, Fee, all these artifacts are great. It's just, your office seems so bland, very professional." He goes on, "You should put up some pictures of you and Hamish, a vase with flowers, you know."

"Since when did you become an interior decorator John?" I tease, "Did you grow a passion for design along with that moustache?"

"Okay, I don't see why you and Mary insist on make fun of my moustache," he says, getting a tad defensive, "I like it."

"It makes you look like an old man," I go on, typing away at my computer, "A Hobbit-sized, attractive old man, but still. Not your fault though, John. I mean, lets be honest; you've certainly started to go into a sort of a mid-life crisis."

"I have not." He says with a chuckle.

"The facial hair, the change of wardrobe-I must say I do miss the jumpers."

"Oh, shut up." he says, "Just because I've made a few personal changes, it doesn't mean I'm going through a mid-life crisis."

"Sure your not." I tease and we both start to laugh.

"Actually, um, Fee," John goes on, leaning forward a bit, "I've got to be honest, about the real reason I stopped by. I…I got off work early. Well, pulled off work, actually."

"How do you mean?" I ask, "Did someone just stop by the clinic and bring you over here?"

"Well…" John then looks at me with a comforting smile and it clicks in my brain: Ah, now I see what he means. We've been discussing it all week and I guess I need to face the music now. God, I had hoped we were going to drop this subject. I take in a deep breath and become very stern with him.

"John," I say, "I…I know what you're going to say and my answer is no."

"Fee, he's your brother-in-law. It's only right that you and Mycroft speak with each other." he sighs, "Besides, if I know Mycroft, he wouldn't just pull me out of work for no reason. He's got a car waiting out front to take us too…"

"I don't want to get a car of his John, believe me. I just can't, not today."

"Why?"  
"Because I don't want to spend my husband's birthday with his backstabbing brother." I snap, "No, John, I want nothing to do with him; I let him visit Hamish on holidays, he has been more than generous when it comes to finances, and has graciously helped out with the matter of Sherlock's affects. But, John, part of me can't forgive him."

"I know," John sighs, looking down in his lap, "and you know that I completely understand why. But hear me out, okay?" I roll my eyes and begin to twiddle with the silver ring on my necklace: Sherlock's ring, of course. "Elfie, no one will ever understand how you feel about the loss of your husband and the events that lead to that day." John goes on, taking my free hand into his own, "Mycroft, unfortunately, was apart of that, but I truly believe that he feels remorse over the part he played."

"So you forgive him?" I ask with a twinge of disbelief in my voice.

"No, but I've decided to be civil around him and so should you." He says, "Mycroft, like I've always told you, is your family now. No family is perfect and no family ever truly gets along. Look at Harry and I; we are all that's left of the Watson clan and we barely speak."

"Harry didn't tell your life story to a criminal mastermind." I quip in.

"…True but that's not my point." John says with a sigh, "Elfie, you are a Holmes and so is your son. You are all that Mycroft has left. Remember: He lost his baby brother that day."

I sigh heavily and close my eyes for a moment. He's right. Of course he's right, he's John Watson: always has the right thing to say at the right time. I can never forgive Mycroft for what he did to Sherlock, but I can't shut him out of his own family. I am his sister: only by marriage, but a sister nonetheless.

Slowly, I let go of John's hand and rise up from my chair: "Let's get this over with." I mumble, grabbing Sherlock's coat off the back of my chair. John gives me a reassuring smile and follows me out the door. "Mary, can you tell Janice that I had to leave?" I ask when we pass the front desk, "Something…came up."  
"Oh! Of course," Mary replies, giving John a flirtatious smirk, "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, just…I'll fill you in tonight, love." John answers for me, giving her a small peck on the cheek. "I'll call you."

"Please do," She replies, "And Fee, tell John. He should know."  
"Tell me what?" John asks, giving me a questioning look, "Everything alright?"  
"It's fine." I quickly say, "Lets just go." I head toward the door while John and Mary exchange a quick glance and another kiss. I begin to wonder if this is how John used to feel around Sherlock and I: Happy but slightly saddened by the absence of having a significant other. It's a self-pitying thought, I know, but…still.

Moments later, John and I enter a slick, black car that is waiting for us out front. The silent drive only lasts for about 20 minutes then we pull up in front of a large, white building. "Diogenes Club." John informs me when we get out of the car, "He's had me meet him here before."

"Will we be long?" I ask, impatiently looking at my phone, "Mrs. Hudson is watching Hamish and I don't want to come home late."

John looks at me then chuckles to himself: "Look at you," he says with a small smile, "That coat, the phone, the dryness in your voice: You're acting like…no, never mind."  
"Like what, John?" I ask, stuffing my hands in the coat pockets, "Go on, then."

"Like Sherlock." he says, sheepishly. I suck on my lower lip and let his answer sink in; he does have a point. I've become a machine to those around me, rarely showing emotion except to those who really matter. I've delved into my work and solely focused on being a mom instead of having a social life. I don't have friends, really, just John.

God, I have become Sherlock.

Once inside the Diogenes Club, we are lead to a private office. To both John and my surprise, there is another person already there and looking over some painting on the walls. Although the figure is turned away from us, I can clearly tell that this is not Mycroft Holmes.

"Greg?" I ask, a bit unsure of the buzzed haired individual in front of us is indeed the Detective Inspector.

"Ah, Elfie! John!" he says, turning around to face us, "How are you guys? I like the 'stache, John."

"Ah, finally a complement toward it. Thanks mate." John says, shaking Lestrade's outstretched hand, "How are things at the Yard?"

"Eh, busy." he replies, "You know John that chief medical examiner job is still open if your interested." I look at John a tad surprised; John was offered the chief medical examiner job at the Yard? Why didn't he tell me about this? That would be great for him. He'll never say it, but he misses going to crime scenes and feeling the thrill of a case. I can tell.

"I have a feeling that given my history with the police chief, I wouldn't be given the job." John jokes. I chuckle slightly at the memory of John punching that man in the face; you know, I don't think he's ever apologized for that.

"How's the little one?" Greg asks addressing me now

"Um, he's great." I reply, "Walking, now, and talking. He seems to be a nonstop, bundle of energy."

"Ah, they always are at that age." He says with a smile, "But you look good, Elfie. Not worn out at all."

"Thanks." I say, blushing slight, "But, um, Greg, do you know why we're here?"  
"I was going to ask you two the same thing," he says, folding his arms across his chest, "I was at a crime scene then I get a call from Mycroft about an hour ago asking if I could come down here and look into an important matter for him. He mentioned that it was urgent and you two would be here as well, so I assumed that it had something to with…well, you know…Sherlock."

John nods and I look down at my feet. "We're in the dark as much as you," John says, "but I wouldn't be surprised if this meeting is about Sherlock."

"As long as it doesn't take too long." I quietly add, "I don't want to spend my whole day here. I have things to do."

"I can assure you, Mrs. Holmes. This won't take long at all."

Both John and I turn our heads to see Mycroft Holmes entering the office, twirling his umbrella in his right hand. I take in a sharp breath and roll my shoulders back slightly; "Mycroft," I say with a hint of coldness in my voice, "always a pleasure." I hold out a cordial hand to him and he gladly takes it.

"As it is to see you, my dear," he replies with that half mouth smile of his. We shake and I quickly stuff my hand back in my pocket. A lump develops in my throat; God, I already want to leave. "Nice to see you two as well," Mycroft goes on shaking John and Greg's hands, "Please have a seat. I'll ring for tea."

"I thought you said this wouldn't take long." I quip, "Why would we need to have tea?" John elbows me in the side to be polite; I use to do that when Sherlock was being rude. God, I am turning into him.

"Well, shall we?" Mycroft says, motioning toward the large oak desk. The three of us take a seat in the leather chairs set up in front of the desk while Mycroft takes the chair behind it: "I will cut the point," he goes on in his very professional voice, "there has been some information given to me by a reliable source that I believe you three should be aware of." He then takes out a manila folder from one of the desk drawers and hands it to Lestrade. "This is the file on one Sebastian Moran: former member of the British armed forces, a colonel in fact but was mainly trained as a sniper for some of the most top secret of missions."

Lestrade takes a look at the paperwork Mycroft's handed him and looks it over: "Says here that he was discharged for…unruly conduct." Greg says, "Didn't think you could get discharged for that."

"Depends on how unruly you are." John says, "Um, may I?" Greg hands him the folder and John looks over the pages carefully; See I knew he wanted to be back in the flow of a case. Me, however, I don't want any part of a case. I can't be; I'm a mom now, I can't go running off chasing criminals. I promised Hamish the day he was born that I was never going to leave him and I have no intention on breaking that promise. However, as I glance at the papers out of the corner of my eye, this Sebastian Moran's face sparks something in my brain.

"I…I've seen him before." I say, leaning toward John a bit so that I can get a better look at the picture, "Yes, yes I have. I have definitely seen that face before."

"Where?" John asks, giving me a confused look.

"He was helping Mrs. Hudson that day you and I had rushed back to the flat from St. Barts." I say, "You remember; you received that phone call saying she was shot and then we…" I stop myself and suck on my lower lip. It was the day Sherlock had passed away. The day John and I were fooled so that he would be left alone to Moriarty's whim. The day I lost my husband. John sees the pain in my eyes and takes my hand into his for comfort. I give him an understanding nod then look down into my lap to hide my tear-filled eyes.

I'll never be done crying over that day.

"Wait a minute, I've seen him too." Lestrade says, taking back the picture of Moran, "This is the man we were investigating this morning."  
"Investigating?" John asks, "I thought you said you were at a crime scene this morning."  
"Yeah and this was the body that was found." Greg explains, "He had quite a few bruises and cuts all over as if he had been in one hell of a fight before a single bullet wound to the chest ended it for him."

"And where is it exactly you found the body?" Mycroft asks Greg, but I can tell that he already knew the answer.

"Well, in an alley way near Melcombe Street." Greg replies

"Melcombe, but that's near Baker Street." I quip in, suddenly becoming worried, "Are you telling me that there was a murder a few streets away from where…Oh God, Hamish. I need to call Mrs. Hudson." Drying my eyes, I quickly stand up to leave, but Mycroft says something to stop me:

"He wasn't killed there, I can assure you."

I turn to him in and stare at him in disbelief: "Can you?" I challenge, "Do enlighten me, Mycroft, because I swear if my son is in any danger…"

"There's no need to panic, Elfie. My nephew, as well as the other residents of Baker Street, is perfectly safe." Mycroft says, motioning for me to take a seat again.

"And how can you assure me of that?" I ask, not returning to the chair, "Did your 'reliable source' fill you in on that as well?"

"They did, in fact, yes." Mycroft replies, "They also informed me as of why Moran would be in that area at all."

"Which is what exactly?" Lestrade asks, "To me, this is sounding like his death is connected to a much bigger issue."

"It is indeed." Mycroft replies, "one that has been under private investigation for quite some time. My own brother was even suppose to head the whole thing, but…"

"We all know how that worked out, don't we?" I quip in rather coldly causing all three men to give me distressful looks.

"Fee," John whispers in warning to me, but it's already to late.

"Why did you bring me here, Mycroft?" I ask, glaring down my brother-in-law, "I have far more important things to deal with then to sit here and listen to you speak about how my husband was suppose to lead a private investigation toward this Moran character."

"As I stated, Moran is just an element of a greater issue." Mycroft says, rather calmly, "I brought you, as well as John and Detective Inspector Lestrade, here because what my source found along with Moran's affects is rather intriguing and I believe that the three of you should know about it."

"You have this man's personal affects?" Greg asks, snapping into police mode, "That's considered evidence in his death. I'm going to have to ask you to hand them over to me so that I can take them to the Yard."

"Gladly," Mycroft says and within seconds, he pulls out a large black gym bag from under his desk and plops it down on top of the desk.

"Where the hell did that come from?" John asks in whisper.

"My source brought it to me as soon as they had found it," Mycroft explains, "Rest assured, Detective Inspector, none of the items in this bag have been tampered with. You will find, however, these items are quiet surprising."

Lestrade quickly stands up and open the bag to examine it's contents, bringing them out of the bag one by one and laying them out on the desk: "Okay, we've got one sniper rifle, a tripod, container of extra bullets, change of clothes…"

"Was he on the run?" John asks, standing up beside Greg.

"Seems like it," Greg replies, "And lastly…hang on." He then slowly pulls out a small, black, cell phone. The screen is cracked and it looks worn down from the years of use, but when Lestrade taps the power button the screen surprisingly lights. "Is this Moran's?" he asks Mycroft.

"No, we have reason to believe that he was using a disposable phone," Mycroft replies, "We charged that phone to see if we could get…"

"Hang on, I thought you said your people didn't tamper with the evidence?" Lestrade asks sounding rather annoyed.

"I lied," Mycroft replies with that half-mouth, Holmes smirk, "but we only touched that phone, nothing else."

"Why just the phone?" John asks

"Because we knew it wasn't Moran's, but we also knew who it's rightful owner is…or rather was."

"How can you tell that?"

"I personally unlocked the screen which immediately opened up a message alert. I didn't listen to it because, well, I feel that the remaining contents are for someone else's eyes." Mycroft then looks at me and I let out a shaky breath. I can see in his eyes the real meaning behind that statement. Now I understand why he brought me here.

"Give it too me," I say, holding my hand out to Greg. He gives me a confused look, but gives me the device anyways. John gives me a questioning look as he watched me gently rub my fingers over the phone. We lock eyes for a split second and he quickly understands.

"Sherlock's?" he asks me and I nod.

"How did you know the code, Mycroft?" I ask, quickly looking up at him.

"I knew my brother better than you think, Mrs. Holmes." He says with that same arrogant tone Sherlock use to get, "His password would have to be something that only a select few he trusted would be able figure out."

"What is it?" John asks.

"My birthday," I reply, looking at him, "When Sherlock got this phone, we were still dating. He knew that no one would guess I had anything to do with the password because so few people knew that I was his girlfriend." My eyes start to get watery again and I quickly look back down at the small device in my hands. My hands start to shake; this is the closest I've been to my Sherlock since his death. It's surreal.

"But…how?" Lestrade asks, "How could Moran get a hold of Sherlock's cell phone? That went into evidence the day he died."

"And yet my sister-in-law is wearing my baby brother's coat which is also suppose to be in evidence which shows things can easily be removed from there." Mycroft replies, "Moran could have broken in and stolen the phone for reasons still unclear."

"I don't care." I breathe out, my eyes still glued to the screen, "If there's a message for me, then there's only one way to find it." I gently hit the power button. The black lock screen pops up and I take a deep breath before I type in the code:

0107

The lock screen then fades away giving access to all of the phones contents. A smile grows across my face and tears return to my eyes. Yes, this is definitely my Sherlock's phone. I then notice the little alert pop up:

'_One saved audio message.'_

Curious, I click the alert. The screen suddenly goes blank and a voice fills the silent room. A voice none of us have heard in three years. An all too familiar, comforting, baritone voice that causes my heart to skip a beat:

"Hello Elfie Marie. It's…me."

"Sherlock," I breathe out as if he could hear me. I place a hand over my mouth and listen intently as the message goes on:

"If you are listening to this, I'm most likely not there. In fact, I probably haven't been there for quite some time. I…I don't have much time so I'll get straight to the point. Firstly, I should let you know the time in which I've recorded this: You've just left, you and John. I need you to know that that is because of me; I had one of my sources fake the call to John. Mrs. Hudson is fine, but of course you know that now if you are listening to this.

Secondly is the reason I'm not there to tell you these things in person. I'm in the stairwell on the way to the roof of St. Barts, right now Elfie. I'm…I'm going to die up here, Elfie. Moriarty has made this inevitable and there is no running for it this time. This was not an easy decision on my part, but it so that I can protect you and John and…and Mrs. Hudson and…our baby."

His voice breaks away for a moment but then returns, sounding a tad shaky and almost like he's on the verge of tears:

"You must understand this, Elfie, that I don't want to die. I don't want to leave you and our child. God, I'm a horrible husband to leave you like this. I only hope that one day you will understand why I had to do this; it's not to save my reputation, it's to save you.

My darling, I love you so much. The day you entered my life is one that I have never forgotten and the day you told me you love me made me feel that…that words cannot describe how happy you have made me. You have completed my life in ways that I never thought were possible. I use to believe that I was married to my work and that there was no room for a relationship; then you came along and-Dare I say it, love, you proved me wrong. I know that you will raise our baby to be a strong, intelligent young man-because I promise you it will be a boy. He will look up to you and see you as I always have: the strongest woman in the world.

You know I am not a sentimental man, Elfie, but know this: My heart will always belong to you and I will always love you. You are my darling, darling girl and I can't say thank you enough for bringing me light into my life. Stay strong for me and-dear God please-never, ever forget me. I promised you once that I would never leave you and I intend on keeping that promise. We're an 'us' remember? One will always be with the other. Always.

I love you, my darling Elfie Marie Holmes. Please never forget that."

And as soon as it had entered the room, Sherlock's voice is gone once again.

_**Hello again,**_

_**So I meant to put this up yesterday but there was this 26 seconds long teaser trailer that side-tracked me (hence the addition of the moustache and the buzzed hair: RIP silver fox locks)**_

_**ANY WAYS, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Thank you to Yoshinator for pointing out my error in the last chapter so I went back and fixed it. Points for Guest on picking up on the fact that January 6**__**th**__** is Sherlock's birthday. It will come into play, don't worry **____** So then I also want to mention that I have made Elfie's birthday January 7**__**th**__**. I didn't purposely make their birthdays so close; January 7**__**th**__** is my birthday and I just wanted to give a personal touch to my character. Selfish? Maybe.**_

_**Thanks as always for the support and comments.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	12. Chapter 12: As If We Never Said Goodbye

_Chapter 12: As If We Never Said Goodbye_

John and I are back in the sleek, black car and are on our way to Baker Street. I can't go back to work, not after what's just happened. I just need to go home and be with my son. I stare out the window and watch as London passes by, twiddling the broken phone in my hands. Mycroft let me keep it; I didn't ask for it, but he knew that I didn't have too. He and Lestrade were discussing the matter of what to do with the death of Sebastian Moran when John and I were leaving. I couldn't stay in that room any longer. I needed air. I needed to leave. I needed to separate myself from the situation before all of my locked away emotions broke free.

There's not one singular emotion I can that I am feeling; my body has gone into shock and my mind is buzzing. Hot tears drip down my face and I can't speak. I can't pinpoint exactly what I'm feeling but this I know for sure:

That was my Sherlock's voice.

I've just heard my love's voice for the first time in three, long years. There's a wave of reopened grief that has come over me because it's been so long. And yet, it still feels like it was just yesterday that I lost him, that I looked into those sea foam eyes and told him that I loved him. His message plays back in my head on a non-stop loop, but there is one particular part that sticks out the most:

_"You must understand this, Elfie, that I don't want to die. I don't want to leave you and our child…it's not to save my reputation, it's to save you."_

If it was to save me, Sherlock, then you shouldn't have left me.

"We're home," John says, gently patting my thigh. I turn my gaze from the window and look to my best friend. He's just as shaken as I am, but is much more composed. I've always been jealous of John for that. Must be the military man in him that keeps him from completely falling apart. I can only image what's going on inside his brain right now. The last time he heard Sherlock's voice was moments before he jumped; John was the last person to see Sherlock alive. He was the one Sherlock said one last good-bye too. It must be taking every ounce of his being to not break down right now.

We exit the car and silently enter the flat. Mrs. Hudson is dusting our living room while little Hamish is playing with his favorite block shapes. He has Sherlock's scarf clutched tightly in his right hand…just like he always does.

"Mummy!" Hamish giggles, reaching out for me from his playpen. My mood is instantly changed as I quickly go to him and swoop him up in my arms, kissing his cheeks again and again. After all the crazy and unexpected events of today, this little boy has made it worth it. He's my pride and joy and, truly, my miracle.

"Hello, Hamish." I coo, holding him close to my chest, "Oh, I've missed you."

He giggles a reply in his baby babble and nuzzles his head into the collar of my coat, slightly damp from the light rain outside. I hold his head in place as I begin to rock him back and forth. Tears start to develop in my eyes again and I quickly close them to avoid a breakdown.

"Hello you two, I wasn't expecting you home so early." Mrs. Hudson says, turning away from the bookshelf, "What's all…"

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll…I'll explain." John says, graciously taking her by the arm and leading her into the kitchen. He knows I need my privacy with my son right now. Slowly and gently, I walk over to the couch and sit down with my little boy in my lap. Right now, he looks so much like his father: the curls, the eyes, everything.

"Mummy, look!" he babbles, holding Sherlock's scarf up over his head, "Dah 'carf."

"Yes, I see," I sniffle, brushing some stray curls out of his eyes, "You have Dad's scarf."

"Mine." He says, smiling and hugging the scarf. I let out a small chuckle and wipe away some stray tears from my cheek. My son's smile fades and he furrows his little forehead just like his father use too when he was confused: "Oh tay Mama?"

"Yes, honey. I'm okay." I sniffle, "I'm just…I miss your daddy, Hamish."

"Wha miss?" my son asks

"It's when you want-you really, really want-someone to come back to you, but they just can't." I try to explain to the toddler, "Just like how I wish Dad would come home to us, Hamish. I truly, truly wish that." I bite my lower lip and quickly look away so that I hide my tears from my son. Sherlock's message plays in my mind again:

_ "I know that you will raise our baby to be a strong, intelligent young man… He will look up to you and see you as I always have: the strongest woman in the world."_

Sherlock believed that I was strong so now I have to show it. Hamish needs me to guide him and I can't do that if I'm an emotional wreck. This message seems to be my final assurance from Sherlock that it's okay to move on. I will never forget my Sherlock Holmes nor will I let his memory fade. I just have to be strong without him now. It's what he would've wanted.

Breaking my train of thought, Hamish takes his father's scarf and puts it around my neck: "Dare," he says, gripping onto the ends of it, "now Dah wit you, Mum. No more miss."

"Oh, Hamish," I say with a bright laugh, pulling my son in a tight embrace, "I love you."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Later that night, after I've put Hamish to bed, I dawn my pajamas then curl up in Sherlock's old arm chair beside the fireplace and fiddle with his phone. John's out with Mary even though he insisted he would stay here with me:

"No, John, you should go." I told him, "I don't need someone to hover over me right now. Trust me, I'll be fine."

"Fee, this…what happened today was a huge emotional shift for you," he said, "I would be an awful friend if I left you right now."

"You could never be an awful friend, John. Go out, have fun with Mary; today was just as emotional for you as it was for me. I'll call you if I need you."

As I sit here now, turning the phone over and over again in my hands, I can't help but think about that man: Sebastian Moran. Who was he? His body was found so close to Baker Street, why is that? Why did he have Sherlock's phone? There seems to be a huge piece of this puzzle that's missing and it's bugging me. Maybe there is still a part of me that wants to go and investigate further, but what would it be for? I'm a Holmes by marriage and thus do not have the same skills my dear husband had. Maybe I should just drop it.

Suddenly, there is a pounding on the street door. Worried that the loud noise will wake my son (who takes forever to fall asleep), I quickly hop out of the armchair and head downstairs. Mrs. Hudson must either be fast asleep and completely immune to loud noises or she's just not in because she's nowhere to be seen. I cautiously head down the stairs but freeze about halfway down when I hear the rumble of thunder outside. The pour knocker must be stuck in the brewing storm outside: Poor person must need a phone or something.

The pounding on the door intensifies.

"Okay, okay, keep it down." I say, tying the robe around my waist as tight as possible, "Give me a minuet." I reach the end of the steps, take a deep breath and open the front door. I immediately begin to feel a little uneasy as my eyes lock on the figure slumping in the archway in front of me. His clothes are baggy and wet due to the rain and a large backpack is slung over his left shoulder. The hood of his giant grey sweatshirt is covering his face so I can't read his expression, but I can tell that he is unwell. "H-Hello." I say in the strongest voice I can, "Can…Can I help you?"

The man grunts, slowly nods his head and takes a wobbly step forward. Suddenly he begins to cough violently. He turns back around and bends forward toward the steps, gripping his stomach. Despite every instinct of mine telling me not to go near this man, I rush to help him.

"Can you walk?" I ask, cautiously setting a hand on his back and another on his chest to help him; I can feel his heart racing. He only coughs and groans as he struggles to balance and speak. "Okay, okay," I coax, "Just relax, sir. I'm going to help you. Why don't you come inside? I've got a small fire going and I can let you use my phone."

He takes in a shake breath and nods. Then, as if on cue, the man shifts all of his body weight onto me and tosses a boney arm around my shoulders. Slowly, we trudge into the flat and up the stairs, where I quickly help him to the couch and sit him up right. His coughing dies down and his breathing is more relaxed.

In the light of the living room, I can now clearly see that this man is extremely malnourished. His rib cage is clearly visible from under his oversized sweater as it rises and falls with every breath. The sweater may have fit him once but now it is clearly acting as an extra layer of skin for his boney frame. His black pants are tattered and muddy, but nicer than the typical homeless man's pair of trousers; he can't have been on the streets very long.

"Now," I say, dropping his backpack by the coat rack, "can you talk?"

"Mhm," he sniffles, bringing his knees in close to his chest, "'m fine." His voice is horse, like a smoker's, but it has a sort of youth to it.

"Do you have a name?" I ask, but the man quickly goes into another coughing fit. I fetch him a cup of water and press him to take it. He accepts the cup with two shaking hands and downs it immediately. Maybe I shouldn't have let him into the flat…but I couldn't have just left him out in the rain. As he sits up, and removes his hood, his face is a tad more revealed to me. His forehead is covered by the dirty red beanie on his head, but I can see small greasy strands of dark hair peeping out of the back. His cheeks are covered in dirt and bruises. His eyes are watery and hazed over with fever and his nose is red and runny. He looks like he's been through hell.

"Were you in a fight?" I ask, noticing his battered knuckles.

He slowly nods and his fingers start to twitch. "You…you live alone, miss?" he asks in a very thick cockney accent.

"Um, no." I say in confusion, "It's my son, my best friend and…"

"Ah, you got a little one? Explains the clutter." His grey eyes flash about the room, taking in every detail of each item as if he were debating internally how much they were worth. Wait, now I see it. A junkie; he has to be. I know it's not right to judge a book by it's cover, but I need to think about my son; This stranger makes me feel way too uncomfortable to take any chances.

"Okay, sir," I say in my best demanding voice, "I'm…I'm going to call you a car and maybe they can send you down to the A&E so you can sleep."

The man's eyes grow wild all of a sudden and he begins to shake his head violently: "N-no," he pleads, "I can't…can't…" His coughing starts up again and he curls back in on himself, lying sideways on my couch. He starts to shiver and his grey eyes flicker open and shut. I quickly step back and pull out my cell phone to text Lestrade and John. "Please, miss." He wheezes, reaching a hand out to me, "Don't call anyone. I…I need…need too…"

Suddenly, the man's eyes roll back and his coughing ceases. His arm drops to his side and becomes unconscious. Damn it, this is the last thing I wanted right now: _'Well done, Elfie,'_ I tell myself, '_the one time you decide to be a good Samaritan, you end up bringing a druggie into your home to pass out on your couch.'_

Cautiously, I step closer to the man and check his vitals; Yes, his still alive, but who is he? I look over his still body to find any clue to his identity, but nothing sticks out to me. Then it hits me: His bag! He was holding onto it so tightly when we came in and, if he was dangerous, then there could be some clues in there. Hmm, maybe some of Sherlock's skills did rub off on me.

Quickly, I go to the bag by the coat rack, kneel beside it and unzip it. The contents are not what I was expecting, but they do spark some interest. It's mainly books: Science books, novels, history books, and tourist travel books from all over Europe. I take each one out and examine them. Why would he have so many books? A student? A traveler?

Underneath the books, there's a pack of cigarettes. Not too surprising, I could tell he was a smoker the moment I opened the door for him. There's a wallet, but it's not of much help. It contains various different IDs and credit cards; most likely needs all these aliases to get by in the drug world. However there is one card that makes my blood run cold. In the back of right side pocket there is a medical ID badge. The picture is of a young blonde male with thick black-rimmed glasses. The name: Basil Altamont.

My eyes grow wide as I stare at the card in my shaking hands. How? How can this be that mystery nurse? They look nothing alike; this can't be real. This druggie on my couch must have nicked it off of Basil, surely. Then again, I remember at the hospital, there was no record of Basil Altamont ever being there. But it doesn't make sense: why would my mystery nurse show up at my front door three years later, looking completely different?

I look back into the bag to see if the answer is in there but instead my heart sinks to my stomach. At the very bottom of the backpack is a black handgun. My fear deepens and my hands start to shake. The thought of Sebastian Moran's body returns to my mind along with the shadowy figure I saw this morning. Could they be connected? No, no, I'm panicking. I'm acting paranoid. I'm just…confused.

"Photograph."

I snap out of my dream like state at the sound of the man's voice: "Sorry?" I say, hiding the wallet behind my back as I turn to face him. He is still curled up, but is now pointing a shaky finger at the photo on the desk. It's my wedding photo: the only one of Sherlock and I together that I have out on display. "Oh, um, yes." I say, trying to stay calm, "It's an old photo."

"He looks familiar," the man croaks, "Ain't he…that detective guy?"

"No, uh, no." I stammer, quickly hustling over to my desk and slamming the picture down, "just a…an old friend." I don't want this man to know anything bout Sherlock. Who knows? Maybe he once investigated him.

"Dead?" the man asks. I can hear him grunt as he uncurls his aching body and slowly rises from the exam table. My heart begins to race as I immediately regret turning my back on him. I left the gun in the bag. Shit.

"Yes." I reply, holding onto the ring around my neck like a child gripping their favorite toy. Fear begins to run throw my veins and I can feel my heart beat quicken.

"Close to you?" his voice is softer now, almost like a whisper. I hear the lock of the guns safety and I am frozen with fear. Immediately, I start to think of a way I run down the hall to protect Hamish. Oh God, what have I done?

"Yes," I cautiously reply, "Very close." He takes a few steps closer to me and I feel like my heart is going to burst from my chest.

"How?" His voice is deeper and colder as he takes another step. The cockney accent is gone as is the gruffness; it's a much smoother sound now.

"Beg pardon." I stammer.

"How'd he die?"

"Su-suicide."

"You saw him fall?"

I bite my lip and close my eyes as tight as I can. I can feel his breath on my neck and yet I can't move: "N-no." I whisper, "He, um, had me and our…I-I mean, I saw him before he…" Words fail me as I feel his hand slowly move up to my arm: his fingers grazing the silk of my husbands robe. My body shakes in fear and I take in a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

Suddenly, something sparks in my brain. My eyes shoot open just as the man's hand rests on my shoulder: "How did you know he fell?" I quickly spit out, "I never said he fell."

I turn around, expecting to see the man pointing the gun at me, but instead am taken back by the sight of his face. The red beanie is gone as is the dirt and bruises. It's as if he's shed that skin, like a snake. He looks healthier and much more like a regular man instead of a homeless drug addict. His eyes are no longer watery and feverish, but sparkle a deep, familiar sea-foam green. They lock with my own and my heart practically jumps up to my throat. A smirk grows across the man's face as his hand moves from my shoulder to my bright pink cheek.

"Hello, Elfie."

"…Sherlock."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"Elfie."

This can't be happening. No. This isn't real. He isn't here. He _can't_ be here!

"Elfie Marie, please."

My world begins to spin as I slowly open my eyes. I feel nauseous and a headache is gnawing at my skull. A blurry figure is kneeling over me: He can't be here. He's gone. He's dead. I close my eyes again, hoping this is all a dream. Two hands grip onto my shoulders and shake me slightly.

"I know you're upset, darling, but it won't do you any good to pass out on me again."

That voice: that sarcastic, dry and yet soothing, baritone voice. I've missed that voice and the way it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A soft hand cups the left side of my face and I open my eyes again. Our eyes lock and my mind go blank. I can't speak. I can't move. I can't even think properly. He really is here.

"Do say something, darling." Sherlock says with a smirk, "You are making this a tad bit uncomfortable, gaping up at me like a fish and all."

My mouth struggles to formulate the correct words to say and my voice has completely abandoned me. What am I suppose to say? I've dreamed of this moment for 3 years, but I never thought it would actually happen. It couldn't happen! It has happened. Sherlock slowly stands and offers me his hand. I slowly take it and rise to my feet, grabbing the desk for extra support.

"Now," he goes on, nonchalantly, "you may have some questions for me. For starters, I can explain my appearance for you, but it's all quite obvious. How else was I to get into the…"

Suddenly, without even really thinking, I slap him square across the face. He stumbles back a bit but latches hold onto the arm of the couch to catch his balance. "I _may_ have some questions?" I yell, "May have? H-how…no, what…GAH! YOU SON OF A BITCH!" My shock is quickly replaced with anger as I slap him across the face again. Sherlock massages his left cheek and attempts to speak, but I go at him again.

"Now Elfie, Elfie," he tries to explain, quickly grabbing my wrists, "Listen to me, darling. You have to listen."

"Shut up! I'm not your darling!" I bark, waving my hands around to try and get another hit at him, "Just, shut up! You lied to me! You selfish bastard! You can't be real!"

"No, you just slapped an illusion a few times." Sherlock replies, with that signature annoyed tone of his. Grabbing hold of my arms, he then pulls me in close to his chest. I just squirm like an impatient child as I try to break free: shaking my head about as if it will do any good.  
"Let go of me! Stop this!" I hiss, but his grip doesn't loosen. Feeling like I'm going to pass out again, I give up fighting and slump forward, placing my forehead on his chest. . I feel my stomach churn as a sea of emotion floods my head. This must be a dream, surely, because there is no way this is even remotely possible: "I…I buried you." I manage to whisper, holding back tears.

"I know," Sherlock replies, cautiously letting go of my wrists and setting his hands on my shoulders, "And there is no reason in this world that gives me the right to ask for your forgiveness. But know that I am truly sorry."

"Sorry?" I ask, lifting my head to look at him, "You're sorry? That's all you can say right now; you're sorry?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but then sighs heavily and looks down at the floor in shame: "As I said, I can never ask for your forgiveness." He goes on, taking his hands away, "I…I did a terrible thing by you and John, Elfie and I've had to live with that guilt for three years. That's worse than death, I can assure you."

"So you want me to feel sorry for you, is that it?" I snap, "You expect me to feel bad for you because you made a mistake?"

"No, of course not. I don't expect you to feel anything of the sort." He says, running his hands through his curls, "If anything you should feel angry with me."

"Angry is putting it lightly, Sherlock!" I hiss, no longer being able to hold back my tears, "Do…Do you know what I had to go through that day? What I had to endure as your widow? Do you even realize what you've done?" He looks up at me with the saddest eyes in the world; as if what I'm about to say will in fact kill him. Never the less, I need to say this:

"You lied to me, Sherlock." I cry, "You lied to me for 3 whole years! All that time you let me believe that you had taken your own life because everything had gone to hell for you. I couldn't wrap my head around it: How could my Sherlock-my genius-commit suicide? How could that have happened and why didn't he come to me? I-I had lost so much that day: my husband, my world…my best friend.

And yet, here you are, three years later like everything is okay. What the hell Sherlock? Do you really think of no one but yourself? John went back into therapy, after you died, that's how big of a deal this is. Don't forget, I had to raise our child all on my own too. Your acting like nothing has changed! Did you expect me to just run into your arms, so over the moon to see you, and be all like _'oh, Sherlock, love! Missed you, glad your back'_?

I had to raise Hamish all on my own do you understand that? I didn't talk to anyone or rarely even left the flat. Every night, I tell Hamish a story about you. 'Tell me about Dah,' he says, 'Dah is my hero.' You're a bedtime story to him, Sherlock. He's only ever seen pictures of you and just has this imaginary thought of what you might be like. Do you know how hard it is to tell your own child about someone who'll never be there?

I-I was so depressed and alone. Everyone thought you were a fraud, Sherlock, but I couldn't believe it. I have lived with the image you lying dead on the sidewalk, covered in blood, for 3 years and now…now you're alive. How do you expect me to live with this? I can't-I want to but-Sherlock, you broke my heart."

Unable to control myself anymore, I turn away, bury my face in my hands and begin to weep. I thought I was done crying but I think that it has finally all sunk in: Sherlock is alive. He isn't a fraud. He really is here. Slowly and gently, I feel Sherlock wrap his arms around me and pull me in close. I wrap my arms around his frail torso and hide my face on his chest.

"Oh my God," he says, between tears, "My Elfie Marie, what have done? I am so, so very sorry. I…I know that means nothing to you, but you must believe me when I say it. I will never be able to earn your complete forgiveness and I've accepted that. But, please, Elfie, don't hate me. I can't bare the thought of you hating me. You have every right to hate me, I know, but…God, just please don't. I'm begging you."

"You never beg." I breathe out. We look at one another for a split moment and smile. "I could never hate you," I cry, holding him even tighter, "Never." Sherlock holds me back with all of his might and we remain like this for countless moments. All is not forgiven or resolved, but right now that doesn't matter. This moment is the first of its kind in three years: This is the first time we've been together.

"I…I got your message," I whisper in between sobs, "the one on your phone. Why did you say those things? Why did you make me believe you were going to die?"

"Because I had too," he coos, resting his cheek atop my head, "if anyone could convince the world of my death, it would be you. You had to believe I was dead or else Moriarty…"

"Don't! Don't you dare say that name," I snap, raising my head, "Don't you ever say the name Moriarty to me ever again."

Suddenly, without thinking, I kiss him like I've been aching to since that day at St. Barts. To my surprise, Sherlock kisses me back and rather passionately too, like someone whose been longing for this moment. I close my eyes and try not to think about anything as Sherlock begins to rub his hands up and down my torso. He grabs my waist and pulls me in even closer to his body. I open my mouth slightly to let him slip in his tongue and to my surprise he does so. I hook my legs around his waist as our kiss deepens and he carries me to the couch. He sets me down on my back and lies down beside me.

Gently, I cup his face in my hands and pull my lips away so that I can stare into those gorgeous, sea foam orbs that I've missed so much. I've missed his touch, his gaze, his…everything. We smile at one another and I nuzzle my forehead against his: "I love you." I whisper, placing another kiss on his lips.

"It has been far to long since I've heard you say that to me." He replies wrapping his arms around my waist, "my darling, darling girl."

We cuddle up close to each other like we use to do and I can't help but feel like everything is right in the world again. My missing piece has been fitted back into its proper place and for the first time in a long time, I am genuinely happy.

Just then, we both hear the pitter-patter of little feet against the hardwood floor. I quickly rise up from the couch and go toward the noise. Sure enough, little Hamish has managed to get out of bed and wander about the hallway with his thumb in his mouth and Sherlock's scarf tightly gripped in the opposite hand.

"What are you doing up, sweat heart?" I coo, scooping the little boy up into my arms, "Did you hear mummy shouting?" He nods his little head before dropping it onto my shoulder. "I'm sorry," I say, kissing his cheek as I head back to the living room.

Sherlock is still sitting on the couch, completely frozen and bugged eyed when he sees me with Hamish. This is it; the moment I only ever dreamed of happening. Sherlock is finally meeting his son.

"Hamish," I whisper to the toddler, "Do you want to meet someone?"

The little boy perks up suddenly and nods with excitement as we walk closer to the couch. "Mmph," he mumbles, reaching out a pudgy hand toward the couch. I turn back to face Sherlock and then back at Hamish. Their eyes are glued to each other with fascination. Sherlock doesn't look afraid or nervous as I take a seat beside him and allow Hamish to sit half on my lap and half on his.

"Hamish," I say, "this…this your daddy."

"H-hello," Sherlock whispers.

Hamish just giggles and smiles brightly at his father. I can see it in his eyes that he already knew who Sherlock was; somehow he just knew; "Dah." He giggles, holding Sherlock's scarf out to him.

A warm smile grows across Sherlock's face as he carefully takes the scarf into his own hands: "Have…have you been taking care of this for me?" he asks Hamish. The little boy proudly nods. "Good man," Sherlock replies with a small chuckle.

Cautiously, Sherlock then takes a hold of one of Hamish's. Hamish curiously looks down at the hand and tightly grips one of Sherlock's fingers; His fingers are so small compared to Sherlock's long, boney ones. The two then lock eyes, both lost in their own thoughts. "My son." Sherlock whispers in a breathy voice, gently stroking Hamish's cheek.

"My Dah." Hamish practically squeals as he wiggles his way to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck and cuddle up close to him. Sherlock immediately holds him close and starts to gently rock him. I can't help but tear up at the sight.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asks me,

"Nothing," I reply, moving up as close to him as I possibly can, "Absolutely nothing."

_**Together again! Finally.**_

_**I was going to make the reunion and the stuff with Hamish a completely separate chapter but I thought since you guys are sooo awesome, I'd give it to you all at once Xoxo**_

_**I have a couple more chapters left of this to tie up loose ends and such, but just an FYI that this will be coming to a close. I have another story sort of planed out in my head that is a tad darker so stay tuned for that.**_

_**Thanks as always for the support!**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	13. Chapter 13: For Your Family

_Chapter 13: For Your Family_

I awake the next morning on the couch with Hamish curled up on my chest. How did I get here? Ah, that's right I spent my whole night out in the living room. There is a soft pitter-patter of rain that echoes through the flat and the air in the living room has a nippy chill too it. Why did I spend the night in the living room? Surely the bedroom is warmer. Very slowly, I blink my eyes open and slowly lift my head up from the Union Jack pillow. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a backpack lying by the coat rack. There is a soft moan coming from beside me and the arms wrapped around my waist tighten slightly. Now it's all coming back to me: the reason I slept out here, the reason I was even in the living room.

My husband has come home.

My Sherlock is alive and here.

He's back.

My heart races as I realize that his return wasn't some dizzying dream triggered by that recording. My Sherlock was really here last night, kissing me and holding me like he use to do. True, I don't understand why or how it could even be possible but I don't really care. That empty part of my heart is full again and everything is going to be as it should be now. But there are thoughts nagging at the back of my brain, questions really. How did he survive? Why didn't he tell me he was alive sooner? Where has he been?

Adjusting myself so that I can be eye to eye with him (and so Hamish is comfortable situated on my hip), I look Sherlock over and take in the beautiful sight before me. He's alive and he's lying beside me. Just like it use to be: just like it should be. I watch his sleeping face and think about what I'm going to say when he wakes up:

"_Hey! I've missed you." _No, that's too generic.

"_How long have you been alive?" _ Stupid; obviously he's been alive this whole time.

"_Don't scare me like that!" _No, that makes me sound like I'm his mother.

I slowly reach up and stroke Sherlock's soft, pale cheek. Despite the fact he is still wearing his 'costume' from last night, he doesn't look like the Sherlock I last laid eyes on. His skin is very pale and he is very thin; not unnaturally thin, but thin nonetheless. His unruly mop of jet-black curls is damp from a mixture of sweat and rainwater from last night. The bit of scruff upon his face only adds to the look of 'hasn't really showered in awhile.' Even though he's removed his bruise and dirt make-up, Sherlock looks like he's been through hell. Perhaps his sickly appearance last night wasn't so much of a disguise.

What's been going on with you, Sherlock? Where have you been?

With a soft groan and a heavy sigh, Sherlock blinks his eyes open and emerges from his sleep. He stretches his body out like a cat and slowly pulls me in closer to him. Our eyes meet. He blinks as if he were trying to focus then he gives me a small smile.

"Hello," he mumbles.

"Morning." I say, returning the smile.

"What time is it?" he whispers, stroking a stray lock of hair out of my eyes.

"I don't know." I reply, "I just woke up myself."

Sherlock nods and yawns, rubbing the right side of his jaw: "My mouth hurts."

"Well, I did slap you pretty hard." I remark with a proud smile, "but you deserved it." He lets out that deep baritone chuckle that I've missed so much then leans in a bit closer to me. We exchange a soft kiss; God, how I've missed those lips against my own.

"Three years," he whispers when we part, "I've woken up every morning, hoping to find you lying beside me like this. And now that that is a reality…I couldn't be happier."

My cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and I let out a soft chuckle: "Sherlock, honey, you know you could have come home to me," I reply, "If you were alive…why didn't you come home?"

Sherlock's face becomes very stern all of a sudden and he closes his eyes: "Now's not the time." He mumbles, "I'm sorry."

I can see now that he's hiding something, something very dark and very unnerving. Of course I want to know what, but I don't want to spoil this moment. He's home and that's the most important thing to me right now. There will be a time for answers and explanations, but it's not now.

Attempting to comfort him, I nuzzle my forehead against his and kiss the corner of his mouth. Sherlock sighs contently then opens his eyes again: "I love you," he says and our lips meet for another kiss. As our lips slowly part, my husband's gaze shifts from my face to Hamish: "He's beautiful, Elfie." He says as he softly strokes Hamish's back, "Absolutely beautiful."

"He looks like you," I reply, adjusting Hamish so that he can lie comfortably between us, "Even when he was new born, anyone could tell immediately that he's your son."

"I know." Sherlock sighs, contently staring down at our son.

I furrow my brow in confusion but then relax when I remember the fake medical ID in his backpack: "The blonde hair was a nice touch," I tease

Sherlock looks up at me then smiles: "I was worried you would recognize me," he says, sheepishly, "I knew that you believed me to be dead, but I had to completely disguise myself just to be safe. Did you really think I'd miss the birth of my son?"

"You were dead, so yes, I did."

Sherlock looks away ashamed and sighs heavily. "Elfie, I shouldn't have let you go through this alone." He states, "I never meant to abandon you and Hamish."

"I know," I say, setting a comforting hand on his arm, "somehow, I've always known that you wouldn't just leave us." Our eyes meet again and I can see the pain and regret in Sherlock's gaze. I cup his right cheek in my hand and kiss him on the lips: "You're home now, that's what's important." I whisper.

"You deserve to know everything," he whispers back, "But…I promise you I will explain it all in time."

I give him an affirming nod then smile at him again. "Do you want to hold him?" I ask, nudging my head toward Hamish.

Sherlock nods then we both slowly sit up. I carefully pass the toddler over and guide Sherlock's arms so that they can securely cradle him against his shoulder. Immediately noticing the change of holder, Hamish crinkles his face and starts to stir.

"Wha-what did I do?" Sherlock asks, sounding a tad panicked, "What did I get wrong?"

"Nothing, love," I say with a chuckle, "he's just waking up." As if on cue, Hamish rubs the sleep from his eyes and lets out a small yawn. He lifts his little head up and his eyes meet his father's.

"Morning," Sherlock says in a soft tone that, frankly, I've never heard him use before, "Did…did you sleep well?"

"Mhm," Hamish mumbles in reply. He then wraps his little arms around Sherlock's neck and gives his father a small hug. Sherlock returns the hug and places a soft kiss on the boy's cheek. I can't help but tear up at the sight: This is my family and now they've finally been united.

"Dah." I hear Hamish say, "Where been?"

"Oh, Hamish," I sniffle, "Daddy just woke up. Now's not the…"

"It's okay, Elfie." Sherlock assures me, "Can you make some coffee, love?" Seeing that he wants to have a little moment of privacy with his son, I give Sherlock's arm a quick rub then head toward the kitchen to make some coffee and breakfast. I listen carefully though as Sherlock gets off the couch and rock the little boy gently in his arms

"I've been very far away; too far from you and your mum." Sherlock says, stroking Hamish's cheek, "I am very sorry for that, young man, truly."

"Sorry?" Hamish asks

"Yes, I suppose you don't quite know what that means," Sherlock replies, taking a moment to think up a proper way to explain the concept to Hamish: "Sorry…Sorry means that you feel bad for doing something."

"Trouble?" Hamish asks

"No it's not like being in trouble." Sherlock replies, surprising me that he can so easily catch onto 'Toddler speak', "Sometimes when you've _done_ something bad you can feel sorry…I'm not making much sense to you am I? I've…I've never been a parent before, Hamish. I'm usually good at things, but this…this is completely new for me."

I lean in the archway and listen to what Sherlock is saying; he sounds defeated and sad, not as cocky as I knew him to be.

"Shall I tell you something about me, Hamish?" he goes on and Hamish excitedly nods his little head; "I'm not the person your Mum has told you about. I'm-I'm just a man who has been very lucky in his life. But then I…made a mistake: I left you and your mum all alone never to come back. I missed so much and I am deeply sorry for not being there for you."

I quickly realize that he's saying this more for himself then for Hamish. This must be part of the guilty I saw in his eyes.

"You have always been with though, Hamish. Did you know that?" Sherlock goes on, clearly holding back tears, "Right here." I watch as Sherlock takes Hamish hand and sets it over his heart: "You'll always have a spot here, my young man, don't ever forget that."

"Mummy an' Jawn said you here too," Hamish says, pointing to his own heart, "Always."

Sherlock gives off a warm chuckle and kisses the top of Hamish's forehead: "They were right," he whispers to the boy, "They're always right."

"Mummy miss you lots."

"I missed her a lot too. I missed you as well, Hamish. You were so small when I first saw you. Now, you've grown to be so big and strong."

"Smart too!" Hamish exclaims, pointing to his own head, "I just like you."

"Of course you are," Sherlock chuckles, taking his son's hand into his own.

I lean in the archway just watching as Sherlock stands in his spot where he used to play his violin and situates Hamish on his boney hip. My heart skips a beat and I've never felt so happy or proud in my entire life. Here is my family, my very own family. I never thought we would be together again, but now here we are: Home and together.

A large smile has appeared on Sherlock's face and I can see his eyes begin to well up with happy tears as he bounces the giddy little boy on his hip. Who would have ever guessed a sight like this? Sherlock Holmes and a toddler, happily spending time together. It's a sight no one, not even me, would have ever thought they'd see.

"I love you, Hamish Holmes." Sherlock says, swinging the boy up into his arms, "Do you know that?"

Hamish nods and lets out a happy giggle: "Stay?"

"Am I staying? Is that what your asking?"

"Mhm."

"Of course I am. I promise you I'll never leave you again."

"You better not," I input, whipping tears off of my cheeks. Sherlock opens an arm out to me and I gladly go to his side, wrapping my arms around his waist. He encases me in a tight side hug while balancing Hamish on his hip.

"Sad?" Hamish asks, reaching a pudgy hand out to me.

"No, no, sweet heart," I reply taking his hand into mine, "I'm happy. Very happy." I look up at Sherlock and we exchange a quick kiss: "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."  
"I love you, Elfie Holmes."

0o0o0o0oo0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0

After breakfast and a long (much needed) shower, I toss on my sweats and head back downstairs to the living room. I hadn't realized there was a spare bathroom upstairs until recently; I had always wondered why John never came to use the one in Sherlock's bedroom?

Tying my hair up in the towel, I immediately notice the loud buzzing of my cell phone on the coffee table. I quick grab the phone, press the side button to silence the vibration and slide open the screen to view the series of messages:

_Happy birthday my dear friend! Didn't hear from you so I hope everything is ok. Meet Mary and I for lunch later? –JW_

_Elfie! Happy birthday! John told me what happened yesterday. Here if you want to talk, hon'. Lunch? –MM_

I groan and rub my free hand across my face: is it sad that I had forgotten about my own birthday? There's been just so much on my plate recently that I never really took any thought to it. Besides, now I have a resurrected Sherlock Holmes to deal with; my birthday is at the bottom of my list of things to deal with today. Also, it's too early to deal with people. What time is it anyway? I squint at the bright screen and check the time: 11am. Okay, maybe not too early to deal with people, but still. Putting it on speaker, I listen to my voicemail's while I pick up my still half-full coffee mug:

"_Elfie, this is your mother. I'm calling to wish you a happy birthday and just hear how you're doing. You haven't been calling and…"_

Delete. Yeah, I'm not quite ready to tell my mom about Sherlock coming back into my life just yet. I can only image the scene she'll make. Next message:

"_Fee, hey, it's John. I hope you're enjoying your birthday so far. Uh, I tried texting you earlier but you must have missed it or you're busy with Hamish or…something. You didn't call last night so I hope you were okay after that whole recording…thing. Yeah. So, uh, I was wondering if you'd like to get some lunch…or dinner, which ever is easiest for you, with Mary and I. You can bring Hamish of course. So, um, yeah, give me a call back. Cheers."_

What am I going to say to John? Sherlock returning is just a big of a deal to him as it is to me. I have no idea how he'll react or what he'll say. It's too…Ugh, I don't even know. Next message:

"_Mrs. Holmes, hey, it's Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. Look, I wanted to see how you were after yesterday. I can't have been easy hearing his voice again and…well…it must have been a lot for you. You know you can always talk to me and…yeah. Anyway, um, we're close to wrapping up the Moran case. Turns the guy was working as a hired gun and-Well, I can't give you full details because you're not on the case and such and…Well, if you want to know the details, you know where to find me. Cheers, oh and Happy Birthday. Tell the little one I say hello."_

"Lestrade's on the Moran case?"

Surprised to hear a deep baritone voice coming from the armchair, I quickly turn my head to face the speaker.

There, sitting cross-legged with his hands steepled under his chin, in the nude, is Sherlock Holmes.

"Ah!" I scream, nearly falling backwards.

"Yes, darling, I'm still here." Sherlock says with a smirk, "Hope you don't mind, I lit a small fire. It was a bit nippy."

"Where are your clothes?" I say, trying to hide my embarrassment, "More importantly, where's Hamish?"

"Mrs. Hudson took him down to her flat along with my clothes," he says, with a hint of annoyance, "Practically demanded that I remove them when she finished crying. She said that I would get sick if I kept my…how'd she put it? Oh, yes: _'those dirty rags'_. I told her she was over reacting, but nonetheless, I obliged. She was fine with me being back, by the way. Cried for a while, told me that she always knew I'd come back…all that sort of stuff. Sentiment, I guess. She took Hamish with her because she said we needed some 'together time'. Poor boy was so upset, but I promised him you and I would be down in a bit to get him.

Anyway, I let Mrs. Hudson take my clothes and I hopped in the shower. By the way, why are you using color shampoo? From the state of your roots, you haven't touched up your hair in 6 months. I highly doubt your getting grey hairs, my dear; you're much too young. I like the shorter length, though. Definitely gives a very beautiful shape to your face."

"Huh? Oh, um, yeah, thanks." I grumble, feeling very self-conscious.

"Well," Sherlock goes on, brushing his hand through the air, "I've showered and, to answer your initial question, Mrs. Hudson still hasn't returned my clothes so I am not dressed. I don't suppose you have any of my old clothes lying about, do you?"

"Actually, there's a box of some of your old stuff upstairs in the bedroom." I admit, "I couldn't bring myself to sell and or toss out everything after you…well left."

"Stuff, what stuff?"

"Uh, some of your shirts and trousers, your violin, I think I kept your laptop…"

"Ah! Perfect!" Sherlock says, standing up with excitement, "That's exactly what I need. Perhaps this will be easier to crack now. You never cease to fail me, Elfie Marie, never. Now, where's my bag? I have work to do." He spots the red backpack on the ground by the coat hanger and quickly goes to it. I feel my cheeks turn bright red as I watch him go.

"Wha-what work?" I ask, "And could you please put some clothes on?"

"Sebastian Moran," he states, setting the backpack down on the coffee table and ignoring my latter statement, "Now, you say that Lestrade was on the case?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah, he met up with John and I at Mycroft's office yesterday around noon." I stutter, "Well, not to really met up. Mycroft had one of his mysterious black cars pick John up and then…"

"What did Lestrade tell you about Sebastian Moran?" Sherlock asks; his voice is cold and stern.

"Um, nothing. Only that his team had found the body and…"

"Where?"

"Melcombe Street."

"Cause of death?"

"Shot to the chest but apparently he was beat rather badly before hand."

"So they recovered the body, determined the cause of death, but not the scene of the crime and now Lestrade wants to wrap it up in a hurry, no doubt with help from my brother. Ha! How dull." Sherlock says, tapping his fingers on his chin, "I was sure that the police would've found the footprints; we had quite the confrontation and left the place in quite a state, I can assure you. Moran pulled out a knife but I was able to pull the gun on him before he got the chance to stab me. Odd how he never thought to just shoot me, it could've given him a better chance."

"Sorry, what?" I ask, trying to figure out what the hell he's talking about, "You…fought with Moran?"

"Oh come on, Fee, you saw me in the building." He replies, setting his hands on my shoulders, "Yesterday morning, in the window? Look at my hand! Think!" Sherlock holds out his right hand to me and I carefully look it over; there are scrapes and cuts all over his knuckles, which may have caused it to be caked in blood for sometime.

Slowly, it all clicks together in my brain: the figure in the window yesterday morning, Moran's body being found near by…Sherlock had killed Sebastian Moran. That would explain why his hands would be all cut up, why he knew about Moran. He had fought with Moran and won. Someone must have heard them fighting and called to report it, giving Sherlock enough time to hide the body and flee the scene.

"It was you!" I breathe out in shock, "The shadow in the window."

"Yes, well done, darling." Sherlock mocks, "Now, why did Lestrade tell you about Moran?"

"He…he really didn't." I reply, "It was more so Mycroft who told John and I about him. That's how I got to hear your message; Moran had your phone."

"He didn't have my phone," Sherlock corrects, "I brought Moran's belongs to Mycroft along with my phone."

"Wait…you?" I ask, "You were Mycroft's _'reliable source'_?"

"Is that what he called me? Huh, clever on him," Sherlock says with a chuckle, "Yes, I was. He's actually been assisting me with tracking down Moran for quiet sometime. In exchange for his help, I would turn in every single one of the criminals I was hunting. I was about to turn in Moran…however things escalated, hence he's now dead. I gave Mycroft Moran's belongs along with my phone in assurance that he would play you that message."

"Wait, wait, hold on!" I snap, "Hunting? What the hell does that mean?"

He sighs heavily then looks at me with a soft smile: "I'm sorry, love," he says, "I'm…I'm not being entirely clear with you right now."

"Um, I guess not." I say, becoming less angry and more confused, "I mean, I would be lying if I said I didn't have questions."

"As so you should but right now is not the right time to ask them."

"When will that be?"

"Soon, I promise." Sherlock gets a sudden spark in his eyes and he starts grinning like a schoolboy, "If Moran is dead…then it's over." He says with a chuckle, "I've…I've done it! It's actually over!"

"Sherlock?" I ask, worried that he may be loosing it. Suddenly, Sherlock swoops me up in his arms and spins around the living room, laughing and kissing my cheeks.

"Oh ho, my darling, darling, girl it is finally over and done with!" he exclaims, holding me close, "No more running! No more aliases! It's done!"

"What the hell are you…" before I can even finish my thought, Sherlock plants a deep kiss on the lips. I panic for a moment but then give into the embrace. I don't know what's caused this sudden mood change but I love this kiss. When our lips (unfortunately) part, Sherlock sets me down on the couch then goes back to his frantic pacing.

"Now we have to clean my name." he says, rather excited, "Oh, this is excellent! Lestrade won't know what to do with himself." Sherlock spins around and claps his hands together, extremely pleased with himself and what he has accomplished…whatever it is.

"Prepare for…wait, what?" I ask

"Phone Lestrade," Sherlock says, "tell him you want to meet at Scotland Yard in about 15 minutes. Say that you have some information he might want to know about. No, no! John! We have to tell John first; John is the most important one to tell that I'm alive. Ha ah, my darling, I could just kiss you all day! This is brilliant!" Suddenly, Sherlock bounds up onto the couch and wraps me up in another deep kiss.

"Sherlock," I breathe out, slightly pushing him off of me, "darling, I am happy for you-for whatever reason it is that your so happy right now-but…I am so lost. Mycroft knew were alive? Did he always know and why didn't he tell John and me? And who was this Moran guy?"

"Elfie, trust me, all will be explained." Sherlock says, cupping my face in his hands, "Right now, though, let me just enjoy this moment with you. I have missed you so much, my darling and all that I want to do is give you my love right now. Will you allow me that honor, my darling? Please say that you will."

My cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and I run my hands up and down his chest: "Why don't you get dressed?" I ask, brushing aside his statement, "Seriously, your kind of…all out there."

"Oh, like you've never seen me naked before." Sherlock chuckles, leaning in for another kiss, "Besides, what would be the point?"

Our lips lock and we exchange a deeply passionate kiss. I close my eyes and quickly find myself back in Sherlock's arms. He hands are feverously rubbing up and down my back, under my shirt and fiddling to find my bra clasp. I begin to plant a row of kisses along his neck as he carries me down the hall to the bedroom, leaving a trail of my clothes along the way.

"Your earnest, Mr. Holmes." I breathe out when we reach the door.

"It's been three years, Mrs. Holmes," he replies, nuzzling his forehead against my own, "Earnest is putting it lightly." We laugh then head inside the bedroom to escalate our romance.

The world stops moving and time seems to freeze for us.

There is nothing else right now.

I am whole again because of one reason.

I am whole because of my Sherlock Holmes.

He's back.

_**My lovely readers,**_

_**Wow, wow, wow! Seriously, those reviews you guys, brought me to tears. Thank you so much for all the love and support and I cannot begin to show how much I deeply appreciate it. I do this for you guys and it always keeps me motivated when I receive such amazing responses. You all are amazing and, like I said, I can't thank you enough.**_

_**I have a few more chapters left for this and I'm excited for them. There's quiet a bit of reuniting to do :) Hopefully you guys will enjoy reading them. Xoxoxo**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	14. Chapter 14: His Side of the Story

_**Hello all,**_

_**So I needed to put this at the beginning because of how dark this chapter is. I had intended on reuniting John and Sherlock in this chapter, but I really needed to get Sherlock's story out and how the past three years have affected him. There is reference to drug use, depression and suicide so if those make you uncomfortable, please read with caution.**_

_Chapter 14: His Side of the Story_

"You sure don't want me to come home?"

"John Watson, I don't need a babysitter; I'm a big girl who can deal with her own life. Besides, you need to spend more time with Mary. Does your lunch slash dinner offer still stand?"

"Of course. Mary and I actually made reservations at this place near her flat for around 6. Want to meet us there? We, uh, actually have a sort of announcement."

"Ooo, is it what I think it is?"  
"Depends on what your thinking. Anyway, uh, I'll text you the address. You'll be bringing Hamish, yes?"

"Well, actually, I was going to ask Mrs. Hudson to watch him. I kind want dinner to just be adults; I, uh, have an announcement as well."

"…Is everything okay?"

"Yes, John, everything is perfectly fine. See you at 6."

"Fee…"

"John, I promise I'll explain at dinner. See you then."

"See you then."

I hang up; toss my phone onto the counter and run a hand through my hair. Sherlock asked me to call John after we had finished getting dressed. He seems very persistent that he shows himself to John. It's probably because he feels extremely guilty about leaving his best friend in the way he did. I don't really know what Sherlock has planed for this reunion with John. I think he expects his best friend to just be happy to see him and all, but I know for a fact that John has a lot of pent up anger inside. He may very well go off on Sherlock in a similar way that I did. It makes me nervous to say the least.

"Well?" Sherlock asks, tightening the belt on his old black trousers as he enters the kitchen, "What did John say?"

"He and Mary have dinner reservations at 6." I reply, folding my arms across my chest, "I told him that we'd meet them there. Well, I didn't say _we_; I just told him that I had an announcement."

"Mary?"

"John's girlfriend; they've been together for almost a year now."

"Mmm, good, good." Sherlock mumbles, setting his hands on his boney hips, "Yes, good for John. Is she…suitable?"

"Suitable?" I ask with a chuckle, "As oppose to what?"

"I don't know. It's only that John seemed to attract the more unintelligent types; you understand what I mean, yes? Those ditzy, dull, inconvenient types." I shake my head in disbelief and laugh: It's been three years and he still judges John's love life. Of course he would, he's Sherlock. "What?" he asks me, "What's so funny?"

"Oh Sherlock Holmes, how I've missed you." I say, placing a soft kiss on his cleanly shaven cheek. He turns his head slightly so that my lips land on his. Just as we are about to deepen our kiss he pulls back.

"What is it?" I ask, slightly worried.

"It's January the 7th," he states, setting his hands on my hips, "your birthday."

"Oh, yeah, it is." I simply reply, "Well, it was yours yesterday."

"Don't be so drawl about it, love. We haven't been able to celebrate our birthdays with each other in three years." He says with a smile.

"Since when did you care about celebrating birthdays?"

"Since I wasn't able to spend them with the woman I love." To my surprise, Sherlock picks me up by the waist and sets me down on the counter; "We should be happy right now."

"Oh, I am happy," I whisper going in for another kiss, "Very happy indeed." Our lips lock in a passionate kiss; however, we quickly part as he starts to cough.

"Sorry," he wheezes, covering his mouth with the crook of his arm, "It's this damn cough. I've had it for a few days now and…Damn!" His coughing escalates as I get him a cup of water.

"Here. Drink." I press, holding out the water to him.

"Won't be able to keep it down." He replies, tossing his hand in the air as if to symbolically push the matter aside.

"Try." I persist. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock takes the cup from me and drains it in one gulp. "Good. Now take a seat." I say, taking him by the hand and pulling him to the couch. Reluctantly, he plops down on his back and props his legs up onto the armrest.

"I'm not a child." He says, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance, "You don't need to mother me."

"No, but if you are sick I'm going to take care of you." I say, looking for the thermometer in the desk drawers, "I know you think it an inconvenience, but humor me okay?"

"Fine." He sighs, running his hands through his messy mop of hair. He then closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh. I turn my attention to him and watch as he tenses up his body, clenching his hands into tight fists and then releasing them over and over again. His bare chest rises and falls slowly with every rhythmic breath and his forehead is furrowed in deep concentration.

"Hey," I say, taking a seat beside him, "You wanna tell me what's really going on?"

"Hmm, what? Oh, nothing. I'm fine, yes, fine." He grumbles, "Completely fine."

"You don't seem fine," I press, "You seem...a bit on edge."

"Darling, I'm fine." He says, opening his eyes, "It's nothing." Looking at his face, I can see there is a sort of need behind his eyes. He wants something but he can't have it. I've seen that look before, but it was very long ago.

Ah, wait, now I understand.

"Where do you keep them?" I ask, rising up and opening his backpack, which is still on the coffee table, "In here?"

"What?" Sherlock asks, sitting up a bit, "I…I don't know what you mean."

"Sherlock, I'm not stupid. I use to be a smoker, remember? The cough, the obvious signs of a gnawing headache: I can tell when I person is going through nicotine withdrawal." I say, digging through the backpack, "Now just tell me where do you-Oh, hang on. Found them."

Sherlock bites his lip nervously as I lift out a half pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I look them over then return my gaze to him: "I remember you smelling like cigarettes the day Hamish was born," I say, tossing the pack back and forth in my hands, "When did you start smoking again?"

"Not long before that day," he admits, sitting up fully, "I don't need them everyday. It's more like a...comfort." Sherlock rubs his face in his hands then goes on in a quiet voice; "I fell into depression not long after I left you and John." He admits, "Things sort of fell apart and I understand that it was my own fault but-I just wanted to loose myself for just a few moments. I use to be able to do that when I was on a case, but that wasn't going to happen due to my 'death' so I came up with an alternative."

"You'll have to smoke outside," I tell him, "or at least in the bedroom."

"I, um, I don't want one." He lies, "I'm…I'm okay."

"Your twitching fingers say other wise." I point out.

"I told you I'm fine." He says between his teeth as he clutches his curls tightly in his fists.

"Sherlock, I'm not mad at you if that's what your thinking." I say, "I fell off the wagon a bunch of times before I finally quit. Life throws you curve balls and sometimes a good smoke is the perfect stress relief. I completely understand."

"No you don't." he hisses, glaring down at the floor, "You have no idea."

I furrow my brow in confusion at his icy mood change. I know that quitting cigarettes makes one irritable, but this is different: "Look," I go on, "I'll let you have one now and then we toss the rest; you can go cold turkey tomorrow, okay? It's no big deal. There's no reason to get so upset."

"Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot Elfie, please!" he suddenly snaps, rising up from the couch and glaring at me, "Don't you think I understand the mistake I've made? Don't you see that it's hurting me? Don't you think I know that I've failed?" I take a step back, surprised by his outburst and just stare at him blankly. He blinks a few time, shocked by his own behavior, then plops back down on the couch; "I…I am sorry, truly," he goes on, staring down at the ground, "I didn't mean to-I mean, its not your fault that I'm being-I'm sorry." He rests his elbows on his knees and hides his face in his hands: "I've let you down, darling. I'm not the man I was; I think that he is truly dead."

I take in a sharp breath and nervously suck my lower lip. It's apparent to me now that he is talking about more than just going back to cigarettes. This is a side of Sherlock I've never seen before: shame, despair, and loss. Sitting before me is a changed man, but not necessarily one that is changed for the better. I know that he doesn't want to talk about what has happened these past three years, but seeing him now has made that inevitable. I need to know and he needs to let it out.

"Sherlock, what happened to you?" I whisper, cautiously stepping toward him, "What were you doing these past 3 years?"

"You don't want to know." He says with an icy sting to his voice, "You'll only think less of me."

"How can you say such a thing? After all we've been through, after I've been by your side for so long: do you really believe that I would think less of you? If that's the case, then you don't know me at all, Sherlock." I get down on my knees in front of him and gently cup his face in my hands: "Tell me." I urge, "Tell me everything."

Sherlock sighs heavily and takes my hands into his own. "I don't want to tell you any of it," he says, massaging my knuckles, "but I know I can't keep you in the dark about it either."

"Sherlock, I'm your wife and I love you." I assure him, "I always will. There is nothing you can say or do that would change that."

"Not even if I was murderer."

Sherlock finally lifts his head and locks his eyes with my own. His eyes are cold and dark and his face is stone and emotionless. The Sherlock I use to know is nowhere to be seen in that piercing gaze. I instead see a man who has seen too much and has experienced pain in ways that I didn't even think were humanly possible. Murderer? No: not my Sherlock. He would never be driven to do anything like that. Would he?

"Hard to imagine?" he asks almost in a taunting way, "You can't fathom the idea that I, the man whom you profess to genuinely love, is not as perfect as you want me to be. I have done terrible things, Elfie. Things that I never knew I was capable of; things I don't ever wish to experience again."

"Sherlock," I breathe out, "if-if you're talking about Sebastian Moran's death-that was self defense, wasn't it? I-I mean he attacked you and you had to-it was an accident, right?"

"An accident?" he practically hisses, "Hardly. I found that bastard and confronted him with every intention in the world to kill him. You found my gun, yes? I stole that off of another man: the first man I killed to be exact. I broke his neck and it felt sickening and unnatural. And yet, I killed again and again and again. I finished them all of, Elfie. Every single one of Moriarty's men."

"Moriarty's men?" I ask, "What do you-"

"The man had an entire criminal network at his whim, and after that day at St. Bart's they were running around, scattered and leaderless. How was I to know that they wouldn't be coming after me, or worse, those closest to me?" He replies, "That's where I've been these past three years, that's the reason I couldn't come home. I had a job to finish: I had to track them down and end it all. No more games, no more riddles, none of it. It needed to be done."

Sherlock takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes again. I stare at him, reading the distress and agony depicted on his face. Slowly, I cup his left cheek with my hand, but he quickly pushes it aside. He rises off of the couch and stands in front of the fireplace, back to me. Leaning forward, Sherlock grips the mental piece with one hand and rubs the other across his face. I know he doesn't want to talk about this, but he has too. It's hurting him inside and he needs to get it out, no matter how dark it may be.

"What happened that day?" I cautiously ask in a soft voice, "The day you…jumped."

Sherlock shakes his head and looks the ground. After a few moments, he speaks, his voice colder and more distant than before: "I met Moriarty on the roof with the intention of delivering his prize: the key code."

"Yes, that computer code, I remember." I say, thinking back on that awful time, "The one he use to break into…"

"It wasn't real." Sherlock states, glaring at himself in the mirror.

"What? But…but how did he do it?" I ask, taken by surprise, "Surely, he couldn't have just walked in and conducted all that single handedly."

"Daylight robbery, Elfie: A few willing volunteers and the promise of a reward. There was no clever plot, no code, no game; it was just a show. He wanted my attention and so he got it. Moriarty built me up to be a fraud and my suicide was to be the grand finale. He knew I wouldn't do it willingly so he gave me a choice: die or allow the only people I truly cared about to be killed. I thought I knew a way around his plot, but…he made sure I'd jump."

Sherlock closes his eyes again and takes in a deep, shaky, breath. He seems truly upset, like someone who has been through a traumatic experience. But this is Sherlock Holmes! He never has emotions nor gives in to them. Could it be that this man, Moriarty, had broken him?

Sherlock then opens his eyes and he gazes into the mirror again. He has that look he used to get when he was on a case, but this was much more dark and dense: "Three assassins:" He goes on, his voice deeper and a bit darker, "one for John, one for Lestrade, one for Mrs. Hudson. Those were the ones I knew about. God only knows what Moriarty had planed for you that day. That was his move; it was my family or I. I thought I knew a way around his plot, but…he made sure I'd jump. So…I did."

My heart skips a beat as I just stare at him blankly: I know what I have to ask, but I'm unsure if I'm mentally ready. Doesn't matter; that door needs to be opened. I take in a deep breath and say it with great determination: "Tell me how you lived."

"A good illusion and proper calculation." Sherlock dryly explains, "I knew how to fall with out killing myself, but I had to make Moriarty's men believe that I was dead; finish the show, as it were. If I were dead, then those men wouldn't harm you or any one else. I had to make them, as well the world, believe I was dead."

"But, you were dead." I add in, "John was there. He said there was no pulse."

"Wasn't there?" he challenges, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"What?"

"He was in shock and unfit to determine an accurate pulse. Not to mention, he fell after that biker hit him, causing him to be a bit disoriented."

"Yeah, but…How'd you know about the biker?" I pause for a moment and then it hits me: "It was you. You planed for that guy to hit John."

Sherlock just nods.

"And…all those people who crowded around you?" I ask

"Homeless network." He goes on, "I had to buy some time so they could adjust the scene. Their job was simple: cause a scene and make sure John couldn't see me. The chaos would give me enough time to get out of sight, place a body where I should've landed and hide. However, there was a miscalculation."

"Miscalculation?"

"I had planed to land on my side causing a few broken bones, cracked ribs, nothing major. Instead I…I miscalculated."

"I don't understand."

Sherlock slowly turns to me then motions for me to join him. I quickly oblige and stand directly in front of him. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock brushes aside a few curls to reveal a large white scar in the upper part of his forehead. I gently push back his mop of curls to take a closer look. The scar is about 3 years old and the wound was obviously well treated. As I run my fingers across the mark, the image John so vividly described of Sherlock's lifeless eyes staring up at him through all that blood flashes into my brain. This is from his fall. This scar is from when he hit the cement.

"You see." Sherlock sighs, taking my hands into his, "miscalculation. The injury had me out cold for I don't know how long. When I awoke, though, Molly had patched me up just as I had instructed her too and I was able to get started on my work." I open my mouth to ask more questions, but he gently sets a finger to my lips: "When attempting to fake one's death, it helps to be an acquaintance of a forensic pathologist." He says, "When I was well enough, I made my way to Mycroft. Yes, I knew that he was the one to give Moriarty my personal story, but that wasn't important. What was important was tracking down Moriarty's men: those assassins and whoever else may be connected to him. That was when it all began, the hunting, the depression, all of it."

His expression turns to stone again and he turns his back to me again. He stands by the windows, perfectly still. After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock goes on in that dark, saddened tone: "I was at there, Elfie. I was at own my funeral. You cannot possibly imagine how it felt to just hide and watch as they lowered that casket. I saw you, completely heartbroken and it was my fault. I wanted to take you into my arms and say that I was sorry until I just couldn't any more, but…I needed to protect you.

That was when the depression started. For the first months, I searched for leads and investigated each one, but my whole being wasn't in it. My mind kept wandering back to you: what you were doing, how was the pregnancy coming along, all of the things I knew I was missing out on. There were times when I was close to Baker Street or the museum and I had keep myself from running to see you. Once, I had snuck into the museum disguised as a student just so I could get a glimpse of you. You were about 7 months pregnant and you looked so beautiful. I wanted to talk with you, tell you I was there. I wanted to hear your voice again and listen when you told me you loved me.

Those were the times I would turn to cigarettes just to calm my nerves; I had to stay focused so that I could come back to you sooner rather than later. But then the cigarettes weren't strong enough and…and thus came the drinking. That didn't last long because I would black out more often then I should. So the cigarettes came back and I settled with that for a while.

When Hamish's due date came, though, I put everything on hold. Nothing was going to keep me from meeting my son, nothing. I dawned that disguise and snuck into your room. My blood ran cold when you spoke to me, do you know that? And the way you held my hand-It felt like things were finally normal again. Then I held that little boy in my hands and I felt…everything. I couldn't handle the thought of leaving you two again, but…but I had too. I ran out of the hospital, managed to get a hold of mass quantities of alcohol and drank myself to sleep that night. I regret that with all of my heart."

I hear Sherlock's voice crack and I notice his shoulders begin to shake due to held back emotions. Slowly, I take a seat on the desk beside him and wait until he is ready to go on. Closing his eyes and stiffing up his shoulders, Sherlock finally continues: "I kept searching for Moriarty's men and when I found one of them, I would confront them. I had planed to just apprehend them then turn them over to Mycroft, just as we had discussed, but my judgment became clouded. The first man I had killed was alone in his motel room. It started as just a small scuffle but then…God, I don't know. My vision went red and the next thing I knew, there was a loud snap and he was dead at my feet.

Things were out of control and I couldn't stop after that. I remember each one, Elfie, in complete detail: the looks on their faces, the light leave their eyes, the sound of their very last breath. Some started as fights, but most I would just let the bastards have it." His eyes open again but they stare straight ahead as if they could pierce through the glass: "Every night, I would lay on whatever makeshift bed I could muster and just think about you and Hamish. I wondered about what his first words would be, how you were doing raising him all on your own, and if he would even know who I was.

Months became years and I could take it anymore. The depression got the best of me and…and I wanted all to be over. So one night, after I had finished a few cigarettes, I wondered down to one of the place I knew I could get what I needed." Sherlock then turns his head to lock eyes with me: "Open that cigarette pack." He practically demands, motioning his hands to the pack on the coffee table, "You'll see how low I've sunk."

I gulp down my nerves and do as I'm told, not having a single clue of what I may find. A knot builds up in my throat as my eyes lock on the contents of the pack. It's not cigarettes; it's a hypodermic needle and syringe along with a few packets of a white substance. I close my eyes and let the pack slip out of my hands. It feels as if I was punched in the gut multiple times. Never had I dreamed Sherlock would go back to this, to using. He had completely left that life behind him. He was so sure of himself…but these years have changed him.

"Cocaine and Morphine," he says, walking over to me, "Each taken once at day intravenously: morphine to calm my nerves, then cocaine to wake up and cigarettes to hold me off in-between. I was allowed to escape the hell I was in, but the drugs would only take me to a new hell. It was a never-ending cycle of self-destruction, I know that, but it felt like there was nothing else to do. I was low, too low to even see away out. So every chance I got, I put myself in the harms way: Over filled my syringe, fell asleep with the gun tightly gripped in my hand and pointing toward my temple, anything at all. I just wanted it to be over."

"Stop," I breathe out between my flowing tears, "don't…don't tell me that. I can't hear that from you." My knees give way and I plop down on the couch, hiding my face in my hands. Instantly, I feel Sherlock's arms wrap around me and pull me in close. I hide my face on his bare chest and weep. Nothing, no dark emotion, can explain how I feel right now. The very thought of my Sherlock-the love of my life and the only one who has ever made me feel whole-wanting to take his own life breaks my heart. Even though his 'death' was deemed a suicide, I knew in my heart that he could never slip into that mentality. But now, hearing from his own mouth that he did in fact slip that far, makes my head spin.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, Elfie." He whispers, gently stroking my back, "God knows that you shouldn't even consider it. But I need you to know this; Every time I shot up, every time I thought about putting a bullet in my mouth, I was saved by you. Your voice would echo through my mind, reminding me that you needed me to come home, telling me that you loved me. Do you remember the last thing you said to me?

'_Solve this, Sherlock. Solve this, no matter the cost and come home to me. Solve this. I love you my brilliant genius.'_

I never forgot that even though at times it seemed as if I did. Those words are what always brought me back from the dark place my mind had gone and that is what brought me home to you.

I haven't used or smoked in over 72 hours and I fear the withdrawal may be setting in. It will be difficult and unsafe for you and Hamish to be around me, Elfie, so…so I understand if you want me to leave."

At the sound of this declaration, I immediately lift my head and look him in the eyes: "No, no absolutely not." I cry, cupping his face in my hands and shaking my head in disbelief, "No you can't leave! I wont let you!"

"But Hamish can't be around me when I'm..."

"No! Shut up! Don't talk like that! I'm not going to have you leave again just when I've got you back." I quickly snatch up the dreaded 'cigarette' pack and run to the kitchen. I take out the needle and syringe, place them in a Tupperware container and then dump the drugs down the drain and then run garbage disposal. "We can get John to properly dispose of these at the clinic," I say, reentering the living room, "For now, I'm going to stow them away."

"Elfie…"

"Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare!" I snap, tossing the container onto the desk and glaring at him, "Don't you dare say that your leaving! You aren't going anywhere!" I run over to him and take his hands into my own, "We are going to get through this as a family, Sherlock. We haven't been a family in three years and I can't stand it anymore. I can't loose you again, not after I just got you back. And it is _you_ that's back: the man that I married, the man that I love…and that I will always love."

"Elfie, I'm so sorry." Sherlock finally breaks into tears, "I'm sorry for everything."

I sit beside him and we quickly wrap each other in a warm embrace. He nuzzles his head in the space between my neck and shoulder and I just hold him as tightly as I can. There have been countless times when the roles have been switched; when I've been the one whose felt as if they've lost it all and he's the one holding me and whispering that everything is going to be alright. Now he needs me and, just like always, I'm here.

And I always will be.

_**Thanks as always for the lovely reviews and follows and favorites. Things will brighten up in the next chapter, I promise.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	15. Chapter 15: Difficult

_Chapter 15: Difficult_

"Dah,"

"Yes, Hamish?"  
"Green one."

"You want to wear the green shirt? Alright then."

"Mummy's eye green."

"That's right; Mum's eyes are green. Now, hold still while I put this on you-Right, there we go. Where does mum put your trousers, young man?"

"Dare in up drawer."

"The top drawer, you mean."

"Mhm, up."

"It's called the…Okay then."

"Dah,"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Love you."

"I love you too."

I can't help but smile as I watch Sherlock dress our eager toddler from the bedroom archway. I felt too bad to ask Mrs. Hudson to watch him tonight so I texted John a while ago to see if it was okay to bring him to dinner. It, of course, was fine; John would never pass up an opportunity to hang out with Hamish. He truly loves that boy and the feeling is mutual.

Also, Sherlock didn't want to spend any more time away from his son. "Three years is enough," he had said when we went down stairs to get him, "I'm not missing another moment." That's what has lead to him dressing Hamish right now; I told Sherlock that it was going to be a challenge, but apparently I was wrong. Hamish has been very clam and still for his father. Usually he's bouncing off the walls and running away from me as if clothes were the worst things in the world. Now, he's smiling and chatting with Sherlock and being extremely good. I must get Sherlock to tell me his secret.

"There we go," Sherlock says, placing on Hamish's last shoe, "all done."

"Tank you." Hamish giggles.

"Oh, your very welcome, young man." Sherlock chuckles, sitting the boy upright on the bed, "Thank you for being so good."

"Can wear 'carf?"

"You want to wear my scarf,"

"Mhm."

"I think you should let Dad wear it tonight, Hamish," I say, entering the room, "After all, he hasn't worn it in quite a while." Sherlock turns to face me then smiles.

"You look beautiful," he says, admiring my dark blue cocktail dress and matching flats.

"You don't look so bad yourself," I reply, adjusting the collar of his black blazer. He is wearing his old black suit with the white button up and he looks just as he did the last time I saw him wearing it. Yes, he is thinner but his clothes don't hang off of him like an extra layer of skin. He's handsome and dapper, to say the least.

"I have something for you," I tell him and Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion. With a small smile, I hold out my right hand to him; Resting in my palm is his wedding band. "John brought it home to me the day you…you know." I go on, "I've kept it safe. Even wore it everyday on a chain around my neck just so I wouldn't loose it." I slip the ring back onto its proper place on his hand: "Perfect fit."

"I-I thought I'd lost it." Sherlock says, staring at the ring in amazement, "When I noticed it wasn't there when I woke up, I panicked. I thought it had slipped off or the paramedics had taken it into evidence. I was worried it was gone for good." His eyes then turn to me: "Thank you, darling."

We exchange a quick kiss on the lips and a small embrace. When we part, Sherlock dawns his old coat and roll his shoulders back as if to get fully comfortable in it again. I pick up Sherlock's scarf from off the bed and gently wrap it around his neck. Yes, now he looks like my Sherlock.

"Mum," Hamish complains, "my 'carf!"

"Hamish Arthur, there is no need to whine," I say, "You need to share." Hamish folds his little arms across his chest and pouts. I'm about to say something, but Sherlock places his hand up to stop me.

"Tell you what," Sherlock says, sitting beside him, "I'll wear it to dinner and then you can wear it on our way home. Sound good?" Hamish ponders for a moment then gives his father an affirmative nod; "Good man," Sherlock says, placing a soft kiss on his son's forehead. Hamish then climbs into his father's lap and wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck to give him a hug. Sherlock holds him in return and smiles at me.

"You're a natural," I say, slipping on my blue coat.

"If you say so," Sherlock replies, carefully rising up off the bed and adjusting Hamish onto his hip, "I've never been good with kids, you know. If you recall, the last child that saw me screamed out of fear."

"That was a completely different experience," I point out, "one that I hope we never have to talk about ever again."

"Sorry," Sherlock says, sheepishly. He then turns his attention to Hamish, who has become fascinated with the collar of his father's coat. Sherlock's expression soon becomes one of fear and doubt as he gently strokes his son's cheek. "What's going to happen when I start getting sick?" he asks.

"How do you mean?"

"The withdrawal, Fee. The headaches have already started and I imagine the next few days I will find it difficult to even get out of bed. I can't bear the idea of him seeing me like that." Sherlock pauses for a moment as Hamish looks up at him and smiles. He smiles back and gives the boy a tight hug: "I love you, Hamish," he whispers to the boy, "never forget that."

Taking a deep breath, I take Sherlock's hand into my own and give it a tight squeeze: "We are going to get through this," I tell him, gazing into his eyes, "Trust me." Sherlock gives me a half mouth smirk and we exchange a quick kiss. I know that he is nervous about withdrawal and by all means he should be. But I'm not going to let him slip away; for years, he has been my rock when things went bad and now it's my turn to be his. I won't leave him. Never.

After a few moments, and Hamish insisting that he walk down the stairs without any help, we head toward the front door.

"Cab?" Hamish asks placing his hands against the wall for support as he takes each step one at a time.

"No, Hamish," Sherlock replies, "we have a ride to the restaurant."

"We do?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"There are some loose ends I need to tie up," he explains, "So, while you were occupied, I found my old phone and…texted my brother."

Unamused, I roll my eyes. I really don't want to deal with Mycroft right now. He never told me that Sherlock was alive; yes, I understand that Sherlock needed to stay under the radar, but Mycroft could have at least given me some sort of clue as to his whereabouts.

"I don't want to talk to him," I say rather quickly.

"You don't have to," Sherlock says, "You can just sit in the car, awkwardly quiet and reserved."

"Are you being funny?"

"Trying too." Sherlock wraps an arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head: "I know you're upset with him and I'm not asking you to forgive him," he whispers into my hair, "but don't be angry, darling. I can't stand to see you angry."

"Then you shouldn't have called your brother." I reply. We lock eyes and I sigh heavily; "I'll be civil. I promise."

"Thank you."

Hamish reaches the door first and quickly turns around to face us: "I did it!" he squeals with a proud smile.

"Well done, honey." I congratulate. Hamish giggles then takes his father's hand into his own. Sherlock smiles at him and gives the toddler's hand a tight squeeze. I smile at my two wonderful men then open the front door.

The cold London air immediately hits my face and I wrap my coat around my frame much tighter. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Sherlock prop his coat collar up against his sharp cheeks. I can't help but giggle. He gives me a questioning look but then relaxes as soon as he figures out the reason behind my laughter.

"Old habits die hard," he says, nudging my arm.

"Don't lie: You've missed doing that," I tease. We laugh like we use to then walk down the steps; Hamish more or less jumps down, gently tugging his father's arm along the way.

A sleek black car is waiting for us. As soon as we reach the last step, the back door swings open almost like it was automatic. I let out an annoyed sigh and follow Sherlock and Hamish inside the car. _'Be an adult, Fee,'_ I tell myself, _'You'll be fine.'_

"My!" Hamish squeals upon seeing his uncle, seated parallel to him.

"Evening, Hamish," Mycroft says in the 'nicest' voice he can muster, "How are you?"

"Look! Dah home!" Hamish says, situating himself on Sherlock's lap.

"Yes, I see that." Mycroft replies. He then turns a sort of condescending eye to Sherlock: "Evening, brother."

Sherlock just gives him a quick nod then wraps his arms tightly around the boy as the car starts to get underway. I sit beside my husband and immediately look out the window.

"Always a pleasure, Elfie," Mycroft says to me but I just give him a polite smile then turn away again; I don't have to talk to Mycroft, I just have to be civil.

"You seem to be quickly adapting to fatherhood, Sherlock." Mycroft says, turning his attention to his brother again, "It suits you."

"Mycroft, lets put the amiable small talk aside," Sherlock states, "As I told you via text, I completely end my contract with the government: I will not and can not be chasing down high profile criminals for you anymore."

My ears perk up at the sound of this declaration. Ending his contract? Is that what it was when he was tracking down those criminals?

"Surely you're not giving up on being a detective." Mycroft quips, "What else would you do with your life?"

"I didn't say that," Sherlock says, "I plan on returning to my previous employment once I'm…well established again. However, I don't know when that will be but until that time comes, I wish to be left alone with my family."

"I never expected those words to come from your mouth, baby brother. I must say you've taken me by surprise."

"If you haven't figured it out yet, Mycroft, I am just full of surprises."

I chuckle at my husband's smart remark and place my hand on his thigh. Oh how I've missed his arrogant sass.

"Well, as happy as I for you accepting your role as a husband and father, there is still a particular matter that needs clearing up," Mycroft goes on, "The matter of the men and women whom you've been tracking down these past three years."

"I turned in the ones I could to you," Sherlock quickly snaps, "and Sebastian Moran was the last on the list. He's dead so that's me finished; what more do you want with me?"

"Explanations," Mycroft replies, "the reason and/or reasons for why you only handed over 6 individuals over the course of three years."

"I'd rather not discuss that in front of my son," Sherlock states, sounding very cold and stern.

"I'm not as ignorant as you think, baby brother." Mycroft coolly replies, "I can see that your health…isn't as top notch as it should be. Could that possibly be part of the reason so many of the criminals, whom you promised me you'd turn in, are MIA as it were?"

"I said I didn't want to talk about in front of Hamish," Sherlock snaps, "I'm not discussing this right now."

It's quiet.

The air is tight.

Things have definitely taken a darker turn.

I nervously suck my lower lip and close my eyes. Part of me wonders how many of Moriarty's men Sherlock has killed, but I know that my heart wouldn't be able to take it. He's right, though: this isn't the time or place to discuss the matter.

"Must be nice for you to have Sherlock back, Elfie?" Mycroft asks almost in a taunting way, "I imagine that must have been quiet difficult for you, brother."

"I would have preferred to have him back sooner," I snap, "but apparently you saw it fit not to tell me that he was even alive."

Sherlock clears his throat as he sets a hand on top of my own. I look into his eyes and read his subtext: _'it's not worth getting into a fight over. I'm home now. Let it go.'_

"I can assure you, Elfie," Mycroft goes on, "that if it wasn't for my brother's persistence, I would have told you that he was alive. I'm sure Sherlock has told you why he had to keep his whereabouts a secret."

"Yes, he did. He told me everything." I reply, "But that doesn't change the fact that you lied to me. Surely in your heart, Mycroft, you must have realized the affect Sherlock's absence would have on this family."

"I did, yes, however…"

"Work came first." I finish for him, "That's how it's always been, hasn't it? That was the same thought you had when you turned Sherlock's story over to that maniac. Did you…"

"Elfie," Sherlock warns and I give him a quick look. Realizing that I may have just taken back my promise to be civil, I take a deep breath and return my attention to the befuddled Mycroft.

"I'm…I'm sorry Mycroft," I mumble, "That was out of line. You've…you've been more than helpful when it comes to Hamish and I; I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"Quite alright," Mycroft replies rather plainly, "I understand that over the course of these three years all is not forgiven. My only hope is that one day things may be."

I give him a quick nod then return my gaze toward the window. He's right; all is not forgiven. But maybe with Sherlock's return, we can start to move past our differences. That is a big maybe, of course.

"Dah," Hamish quips in to break the awkward tension, looking up at his father's face, "dare yet?"

"Just a few more blocks, Hamish," Sherlock assures him.

"Den we see Jawn?"

"Yes, we will see John then."

"Are you ready to see him, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks, "Given that the last time you and Doctor Watson saw each other…"

"Mycroft, when I texted you to pick us up, I was under the impression that you were not going to make this evening a complete wreck." Sherlock says with an icy sting to his voice, "Since getting in the car, you have managed to upset my wife, pry into matters that I clearly don't wish to discuss in front of my toddler, and now you are pushing a topic that obviously does not concern you."

"As you did just state, baby brother, you did text me." Mycroft quips back, "You didn't have too."

I roll my eyes at Mycroft's egotistical reply and Sherlock catches that out of the corner of his eye: "Stop the car." He states.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asks, more shocked then insulted.

"Fee, do you still have the address on your phone?" Sherlock asks me and I nod, confused by the situation, "Good, we can walk the rest of the way."

"Sherlock, are you…" I start to ask but then stop when I see the anxiousness in my husband's eyes. It's the same look he had when he told me about his drug use. Not wanting to stress him out anymore, I give him an understanding nod.

"Mycroft, please stop the car." Sherlock goes on, facing his brother again, "I realize now that this was a mistake; I'm…I'm not ready to discuss any of this with you just yet. I'll text you at some later point. Good Evening."

Mycroft opens his mouth to protest but stops suddenly. Then I see a different look in his eyes, a look I've never seen before: A look of understanding. He realizes now that the past events of the last three years have changed his brother drastically and possibly have scared him for life. I can also see that Mycroft feels partially responsible for it. He gave up his baby brother's story, which lead to Sherlock being on the run. Now, I think he truly regrets it. For the first time, I can truly see how deeply Mycroft actually cares for his brother. In this moment I see Mycroft in a new light: not as someone who focuses solely on work, but as a concerned older brother.

The car comes to a stop and Sherlock quickly climbs out, tightly holding a rather confused Hamish in his arms. I pause for a moment and lock eyes with my brother-in-law: "Give him time," I quietly say, "he's not back to being Sherlock yet, but he will be. I'll make sure of it."

Mycroft gives me a questioning look, but then nods: "Take care of him, Elfie." He says, "He truly needs you."

I nod then exit the car to join my husband and son. Sherlock is leaning back against the wall of one of the buildings, eyes closed, with Hamish clutching to his leg. I stand beside them and take Sherlock's hand into my own. He doesn't even flinch; he just holds my hand in return.

"Where My going, Mummy?" Hamish asks as we watch the car pull away.

"He has to go back to work," I say, giving my son a warm smile. I then look up at Sherlock: "You okay?"

"I will be." He breathes out, "I…I don't know what happened there, Fee. I just started to feel really tense and almost like I couldn't breathe."

"Hey, it's okay." I say, gently stroking his cheek, "You don't have to explain yourself. I'm not going to lie and say that Mycroft wasn't prying, but that's not what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to focus on seeing John."

"That's the thing though: What if John doesn't want to see me?"

"Trust me, John wants to see you. You're still his best friend and he's missed you. You're worried about nothing." I think about my last statement for a moment: I don't know how John will react to Sherlock's return thus I really don't know if he is worried about nothing. Doesn't matter: it's out of my hands: "Let's just go to dinner, okay love?"

Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh and finally opens his eyes. He looks at me and nods: "I love you," he says, kissing my forehead.

"I love you too." I reply, "Lets go."

Sherlock adjusts his collar and straights up: "Sorry about that Hamish," he says, "can you walk the few blocks to the restaurant or do you want me to carry you?"

"Walk!" Hamish practically squeals, coming between Sherlock and I and grabbing both of our hands, "I can do it." Sherlock and I exchange a proud look and the three of us start heading toward the restaurant.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

After an about fifteen minute walk (and Hamish stopping about 10 times to pick up various bits of gravel to only then toss aside), we finally reach the restaurant. It's a bit fancier then I had anticipated which makes me regret that we brought along our eager toddler. The front room is closed off from the actual dining area, which two very well dressed waiters guard the entrance to. A maitre d is taking reservations at a small wooden podium by the front door and he immediately gives us a judgmental look when we enter.

"Good God, I feel like I'm walking in to the ballroom on the Titanic," I whisper to Sherlock, "I'm underdressed."

"As I stated earlier at home, darling, you look beautiful," Sherlock whispers back, "Do you mind asking that stuffy, little man where John is sitting? I don't like the look he's giving us."

I roll my eyes and kneel down to my son's level: "Hamish," I say, "we are in a very nice restaurant which means you must be on your best behavior while we're here, okay?"

"Mhm," Hamish says with a nod, "Jawn here?"

"Yes, John is inside with Mary. Mummy has to go talk to the man at the podium. Wait here with Daddy, okay?"

"Mhm."

I place a soft kiss on his forehead then walk over to the podium: "Hi, um, we're actually meeting someone here."  
"Name?" the maitre d asks in a rather annoyed toned.

"Watson. John Watson."

"Go on through. You can give leave your coats over there."

"Thanks very much." I turn back to my family and give them the nod to head inside. Sherlock and I remove our coats and hand them over to the waiting valet. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Sherlock start to look over his shoulder nervously as if he were checking if he was followed.

No, wait. I understand.

"Honey, you've been dead for three years." I whisper, gently pulling him close by the arm, "No one is going to recognize you." Sherlock smiles sheepishly then stuffs his hands in his pockets. I pick Hamish up and rest him on my hip, and then the two waiters open the dinning room doors. Geez, this is different.

Immediately, I spot John and Mary at a far back table. I start to walk toward them, but stop when I notice Sherlock isn't following. He is frozen in the doorway; just staring at table his former best friend is sitting at. There are about 20 different emotions on his face right now: fear, doubt, happiness, excitement, relief, confusion, the list could go on. There is a sort of insecurity about him right now; an insecurity that can only be described as nervousness. As always, the affect John has on Sherlock is a mystery to me. No one, not even me, can muster that kind of reaction out of him.

"Hey," I whisper, setting a hand on his shoulder, which seems to be enough to break him out of this little trance.

"Huh, oh!" he says, sounding very much not like himself, "I…I just, um…Can you give me a minute?"

"Love, it's okay to be nervous." I tell him, "It's understandable."

"No, I know, I mean…I'll meet you at the table. Give me a minute." And with that Sherlock rushes back out the door.

"Where Dah going?" Hamish asks me, gently tugging at my collar.

"I don't know, honey," I reply, heading toward the table again, "but we mustn't tell John and Mary that Dad is here, okay?"  
"Why?"

"Well, you know how John hasn't seen Dad in a long time? This is sort of a surprise for him."

"Ohh. Secret?"  
"Yes, it's a secret."  
"Oh-tay! I no tell Jawn."

"Elfie!" John exclaims when we get to the table, "Hey stranger." We wrap each other in a tight embrace and exchange friendly kisses on the cheek. As I pass Hamish over so that he can give his godfather a proper hug, I go to Mary and give her a tight hug.

"Hey, happy birthday." She says, "You feeling any older?"  
"Not really," I reply, "Sorry we're a tad late."

"It's no trouble at all," John says, setting Hamish down in the already set up high chair, "We understand how much trouble this little one can be." He playfully pokes at Hamish's tummy causing the toddler to happily giggle. I smile then take my seat beside John (Mary is sitting parallel to us).

They had already ordered a bottle of wine and we immediately started chatting. Even as we are placing our food orders and continuing to chat, I keep looking over to the door to see if Sherlock has come back inside. I know he's nervous, but I wish he'd told me where he was going. A darker part of my mind thinks that he went to buy some cigarettes to calm his nerves. God, I hope that's not the case.

"Waiting for someone?" John jests, nudging my arm.

"Huh, oh no." I reply, "Just spacing out."

"Is everything okay?" Mary asks, "John told me about what happened yesterday; the phone message."  
"Oh, yeah. I'm okay." I reply, sipping my wine, "It was…nerve-wracking to say the least. It's hard to describe really."

"Oh, hon'." Mary says, taking my hand into her own, "I'm sorry."

"For what? There's nothing to apologize for. I'm okay, really; I had my meltdown for a bit and now I'm okay, honest."

"Wow," John says, "you do seem genuinely okay."

"Would I lie to you, John?"

"No, no, I mean-Well, you did hear your husband's voice for the first time since his death. Most women would fall apart."  
"As you well know, my dear Doctor Watson; I'm not 'most women'." I tease with a smirk, "Besides…something's happened that's brightened my mood."  
"Oh?" Mary asks, perking up a bit, "Do tell!"

"It secret!" Hamish suddenly joins in, lifting his head up from the sort of art he's making with a bread roll, "Fur Jawn."

"A surprise for me?" John asks, giving me a questioning look.

There are suddenly butterflies in my stomach and I can't help but smile: "I'll explain in a bit, I promise." I say, seeing that Sherlock hasn't returned yet, "But you said that you two have an announcement. Do tell."  
John sighs heavily and leans back in his chair: "Yeah, um, we do." He says, "Fee, you…you can move Hamish's stuff up to my bedroom."

"Oh?" I ask; playing along because I can already tell were this conversation is going.

"Yeah, you see, Mary and I-Well, we've decided that we should move in together." John goes on, "We thought it would make the most sense given our current situation."

"Current situation?" I ask,

John sighs again then he and Mary exchange a quick look. He gives her an affirming nod and with in seconds Mary holds up her left hand to me. On her ring finger, just as I suspected, is a sparkling diamond ring. I giggle excitedly and stand up to give my by best girlfriend a hug.

"Oh my god," I say, "I knew it! This is amazing. I'm…I'm…Oh my god!"

"I know, I know." Mary giggles, "I'm getting married."

We both laugh, and I then turn to John and nearly tackle him with an embrace: "Congrats John." I whisper in his ear, "Seriously, I couldn't be happier for you."

"Thank you, Fee," he replies, tearing up a bit, "You know, things finally seem right again. I think…I think I can let go now." We hold each other for a bit longer and then finally separate. "So what do you think, Hamish?" John asks the smiling toddler, "How would you like it if Mary joined our family?"

"Mary!" Hamish squeals, holding his arms out to her.

"I'll take that as a yes," Mary says, taking Hamish into her arms and bouncing him in her lap. I look at John and see a smile on his face that I haven't seen in a genuinely long time. He's happy: unbelievably, utterly, happy. It seems that he's finally found what he was looking for after all these years of turmoil. John's found someone and he can finally move on.

Move on.

But Sherlock's still alive.

Sherlock is planning on revealing himself to John tonight.

The night he's announced his engagement.

Crap.

"Alright, your turn." John says, "What's this surprise, Elfie?"

My eyes go wide as my thoughts collect in my brain: what will he say now? Sherlock can't just show up and expect John to be over the moon; John's finally moved on, he even said so.

"Elfie, you okay?" Mary asks, "You seem a bit in shock."  
"Yeah, yeah, it's just…I don't know how to say this." I then turn my attention to John. I take both his hands into my own and take a deep breath: "John, something…something happened last night."

"How do you mean?" he asks, "Everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's fine; more than fine actually." I say, "It's just, um, only…God, this is harder then I thought it was going to be." A lump develops in my throat and suddenly I'm at a loss for words. Oh God, what am I going to say?

"Excuse me, sir, do you need something?" Mary asks. John and I both turn to look at whose she's addressing and I suddenly feel a surge of relief. John, on the other hand, has lost all color to his cheeks. Finally, he speaks in a soft voice:

"Sherlock."

"John, I owe you a thousand apologize."

**Hello my lovely readers,**

**This was hard to write, I'm not going to lie. Writer's block is no fun. Period. **

**Any who, I hope you all enjoyed. Sherlock's last line is in fact from the book; I only changed 'My dear Watson' to 'John' because this Sherlock doesn't call his companion by his last name. For those who have mentioned it to me, Hamish's speech pattern is based off of my own little nieces who are about the same age. It's hard to understand, yes, but that's just how little one's are :). **

**Thanks as always for the lovely comments and favorites and follows. You all are the best. Things are winding down in this story but I am working on another one (on a side note, I'm staring a Star Trek fic as well. Crossing my fingers that it turns out well.)**

**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**

**Much love and many thanks**


	16. Chapter 16: Lost Without His Blogger

_Chapter 16: Lost Without His Blogger_

Shouting: There is lots of shouting and the constant repeating of the phrase _"Jesus Christ, Sherlock."_

Apologizing: It's back and forth between _"John, I'm sorry"_ and _"I know its not enough, but please just listen to me"_

Questions that have been waiting to be asked for three years are finally getting the answers they've longed for: _"How could you?" "Why?" "Did you really think this would be okay?"_

Then there is the guilt along with the one singular phrase that keeps being said: _"I didn't want to leave."_

We've left the restaurant, or rather took our little gathering outside after John stormed out of the dinning room. He didn't utter a single word as he walked out. He just stared up at Sherlock for a few quiet moments, stood up, turned on his heel then left. Sherlock had waited a beat then followed after him; I could see the genuine hurt in his gaze and I knew exactly what he was thinking.

His John hates him.

After exchanging quick looks of confusion, Mary and I exit as well. Hamish complains about leaving so soon as I'm putting his coat on him and asks me if John has liked his surprise. "I don't know, sweetie," I told him, "I really don't know." The three of us head outside and immediately see Sherlock and John at the corner; John is red faced and shouting as he fails his arms about, while Sherlock is just standing there taking in every word. Worried, Mary starts to head toward them but I hold her back. "Don't." I warn, "Let them be."

"How the bloody hell did you expect me to react, Sherlock?" we hear John snap, "I watched you die!"

"Don't you think I realize that?" Sherlock snaps back, "Look, I'm not asking for forgiveness…"

"You better bloody not even go that far!"

"I didn't want to leave John."  
"So you keep saying, but why do I get the feeling you don't mean it?"

"Of course I do."

"Then why did you leave in the first place? No, no I don't even care anymore!"

"John…"

"Shut up, Sherlock! This…this can't be happening! Tonight of all nights; Jesus Christ, Sherlock."

So here we now are: Mary, Hamish and I sitting on a bench in silence and watching/listening the two former best friends. They've been at it for at least half an hour now and, to be honest, I'm surprised no one has called the cops. I've never heard John yell like this before; he's upset, he's angry, he's basically letting out all the emotions he's had pent up all these years. I can't help but feel like he's taken a huge step backward in his emotional recovery. Life has been great for him: he has a stable job, finished therapy last week, has found love with Mary. Now, I fear, things have fallen apart again.

"So that's…that's Sherlock Holmes." Mary finally speaks, breaking the awkward silence, "The infamous consulting detective. Your husband and John's best mate; that's him?"

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" I say, adjusting the now sleeping toddler on my lap, "He's not what you'd think of when you hear the stories."

"Not really," Mary says, "I mean, sure, I remember seeing his face in the papers, particularly the picture with that funny deerstalker. But now, seeing him in person, he seems…I don't know, really. I guess I just can't wrap my head around it." She then bites her lower lip and gives me a genuine look of worry: "I shouldn't say that; it's you who should be having trouble understanding this. I mean, I can only imagine the emotional roller coaster you've been on these past three years-burying your husband, pregnancy, raising a baby on your own-and now he's back. Are you okay? Seriously?"

"In all honesty, yes." I reply with a small chuckle, "I mean, I know that I should be a complete wreck right now, but I'm not. I…I can't really describe how I feel about it Mary; I'm happy he's home but at the same time I'm worried about him."

"Worried?"

"Yes, of course. He told me where he's been these past three years and what he's been doing." I stop for a moment and think: I don't want to tell Mary all that Sherlock told. Not yet, at least. "If you saw the internal pain in his eyes, then you'd know why I'm worried." I settle with, "He's not the Sherlock John and I use to know, but he's in there. He's just lost his way a bit."

Mary nods and we both turn our attention back to her fiancé, who is now staring down at the ground with his hands on his hips and listening to Sherlock, attempting to explain things to him:

"They were going to kill you, John. Don't you see that I did it for you? I did for those who were closest to me. I had to protect you all. You all had to believe that I was gone in order for me to keep you all safe."  
"So you thought 'I'll just heave myself off a building and lie to everyone'. That's great Sherlock, really. That makes it all so much better."

"John, please try to understand…"

"No! _You_ try to understand! I had to watch you hit the ground! I had to tell your pregnant wife that you weren't going to be coming home ever again! I had to not only try to move on myself, but I had to help your wife and child as well. Me, Sherlock! Me who followed you on every case! Me who put up with all your bloody antics and ridiculous mannerisms! Me who you once claimed to be your only friend!"

"You are my friend."

"_Was_, Sherlock; I was."

My heart breaks when I hear John say that. I can see the pain in Sherlock's face and I deeply wish to just run over and comfort him, but I can't. This is between him and John.

John takes in a heavy sigh and continues: "I've…I've moved on. Believe it or not, I have a completely new life now. Do you see that woman over there?" He points toward Mary and I and we both perk up, "That woman sitting beside your wife is the love of my life. I'm going to marry her, Sherlock and…and for the first time, I didn't have to juggle my personal life with babysitting you! She loves me for me and she's helped me move past all this emotional shit you put me through! I'm not going back to my old life, Sherlock, and I don't care how bloody sorry you are; you can't apologize for what you've done."

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John starts to walk away from him. He grabs John's elbow in an attempt to bring him back, but instead it triggers John to spin around and punch Sherlock in the face. Sherlock stumbles and covers his nose with his hand, placing the other one out in defense as John goes in for another swing. Immediately, Mary and I spring up from the bench and run to their sides before a full on fistfight can ensue. Mary grabs both of John's arms and I, balancing a slowly waking up Hamish on my hip, set a strong hand on Sherlock's chest.

"John," Mary breathes out, taking her fiancé by the hand.

"We're going home." John spits out, pulling away from her, "I'm going to get the car." He then turns to me: "Elfie, I'll…I'll text you." He says, his voice a tad softer, "Just…just deal with him. Goodnight." I give him a saddened look, but John just quickly walks back toward the restaurant. My heart wrenches and I immediately feel a knot growing in my stomach. I should have known that John wouldn't take Sherlock's return lightly; I should have talked Sherlock out of meeting him tonight. But he was so anxious, so excited to see his best friend again.

Now, John can even bare the sight of him.

"Fee, let me take Hamish." Mary says already taking the toddler out of my hold, "You help Sherlock."

I nod to her then turning my attention to my husband, who has his back to us and is pinching his nose, whispering obstinacies. I step in front of him and gently cup his face in my hands. Blood is running out of his nostrils and he's trying to block it with his hands. I quickly pull out the handkerchief I keep in my coat pocket (usually to clean Hamish's face) and place it over his nose. Sherlock takes a hold of it, then his eyes lock with mine. The knot in my stomach tightens; he looks heartbroken, but at the same time understanding.

"I…I had that coming didn't I?" he says, attempting to sound like himself and not show any hurt in his voice. I can only just give him an understanding nod and gently tilt his head back so that the blood flow can slow down.

"He'll…He'll be okay." Mary says and we both turn our heads to face her, "I know it may not seem like it now, but John has missed you." I smile at her: Mary does have the biggest heart, which is another reason she's so good for John. She smiles back at me and takes a step toward us. I gladly take Hamish back and cradle him softly.

Mary then turns back to Sherlock: "I've heard the stories about you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes: The _real_ stories." She goes on, adjusting Hamish on her hip, "John's told me and he does hold you in the highest of regards. All I can say now is that it is truly a pleasure to finally meet the man who changed John's life: the man who in all possible ways saved him. For that, I thank you."

She then holds her free hand out to Sherlock. He looks at it in confusion and then looks at her with that deducing gaze: "I'm no hero, ma'am," He finally says, lowering the handkerchief a bit, "I see no reason to glorify me as such."

"Never the less," Mary persists with a smirk, "it's still a pleasure to meet you."

Sherlock ponders for a moment then shakes Mary's hand. His expression has lightened up a bit; perhaps he's deduced that she really is a good person and the perfect woman for John. There is still hurt in his eyes, though. His best friend has left him. John; his John. I don't even know what's going on his mind right now. It already was in such a fragile state; who knows what this could have triggered.

"Mary!" The three of us turn to see john down the street, motioning for Mary to join him. His eyes land on Sherlock and he stares at him blankly, as if it has finally sunken in that he is in fact alive.

"You see." Mary says, "He has missed you. Just give him time." Sherlock doesn't acknowledge her words. He just keeps staring back at John. Mary then turns to me we exchange a quick side hug: "I'll call you tomorrow and let you know if he's cooled down," she says, "You know he's not mad at you."

"I know." I reply, "Take care of him tonight, Mary. Your man needs you."

"Same goes for you." She whispers, nudging her head to Sherlock. I nod then Mary quickly goes to join John. My husband and I stand side by side as we watch them disappear into the night.

"What have I done?" Sherlock says.

"You did what you had to, love." I reply, taking his hand into my own, "I'm just sorry it didn't turn out the way you wanted it too."

"I should have known, Fee," he goes on, "I should have known that he'd…hate me."

"Sherlock," I begin to speak, but am distracted by Hamish's soft moaning. Very slowly, the toddler finally emerges from his sleep and rubs his little eyes.

"Mummy?" he mumbles, "Where Dah?"

"He's right here, sweetheart," I reply, gently rubbing his back. Hamish whines slightly and holds his pudgy arms out to Sherlock. Whipping the last streams of blood from his face, Sherlock takes the toddler into his arms.

"Dah," Hamish coos, burying his face in his father's shoulder, "Go home now?"

"Yes, young man," Sherlock whispers, "We're going home now." He then takes my hand into his free one and gives it a gentle squeeze. I flag down a taxi then head home to Baker Street. We reach home and silently head inside. For the remainder of the night, all is silent. Neither of us wants to discuss what's just happened nor do we even want to think about it. When we finally climb into bed, I wrap my arms around Sherlock's waist and press my body against his back so that we fit together perfectly. He entangles his hands with my own and lets out a shaky sigh. As he closes his eyes, a single tear rolls down his cheek.

"This is why I've never had friends, Elfie." Sherlock whispers, "I always end up hurting those around me and they…they leave."

"Hey," I whisper back, kissing his damp cheek, "don't talk like that. Not everyone leaves you; I'm still here." Sherlock sighs again and gently squeezes my hands. I then understand what he's really saying: "But I'm not John, am I?"

Sherlock shakes and squeezes my hands even tighter. Very quietly, he begins to cry. I adjust my hold on my husband then turn his body so that he can hide his face on my shoulder. He wraps his arms around me and weeps. We remain like this for the remainder of the night.

For the very first time, I witness Sherlock Holmes cry himself to sleep.

He's lost his best friend.

He's lost his John.

0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"Mum!"

"Yes, Hamish?"  
"Dah come play with me?"  
"Not right now, honey. Dad's…not feeling well."

"Oh. Sick?"

"Yes, sweetheart, he's sick. That's why he's still in bed. Tell you what though; let me take care of Dad right now then I'll make you something to eat and we can play, okay?"

"Help?"

"No thank you, Hamish. Daddy's very sick and he…He doesn't want you to get sick either."

"Oh. Oh-tay. Tell Dah get better soon."

"I will. Now, go finish your puzzle while I check on Dad."

"Oh-tay, Mummy."

Hamish scurries off into the living room and occupies himself with his various block puzzles. He's still in his pajamas, as am I. I didn't even think about getting dressed, let alone dressing Hamish, after I got up this morning. When I awoke, I found that the space beside me in bed was empty. I only assumed that Sherlock had risen early and was in the living room, so I didn't take much notice to it. After I had given Hamish breakfast and still my husband was nowhere to be seen, I became worried. Moments later, I found Sherlock curled up on the bathroom floor, hacking violently into the toilet bowl. His whole body was shaking and his skin was covered in goose bumps.

It's started: the withdrawal.

I had managed to get him back into bed and that's where he's stayed all morning. I told Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock wasn't well and that I'd let her know if I needed her help with anything, but so far I've been able to handle it. But this is only the beginning. I'm not a doctor, but I know that in most cases of withdrawal, it gets worse before it gets better. Considering what Sherlock was on and for how long, I am almost positive that things will definitely go down hill very soon.

As quietly as I can be, I open the bedroom door and tip toe inside to check on him. Sherlock is curled up on himself, under the sheets that are pulled up to his cheeks and lying with his back to the door. My heart aches as I take a seat beside him. Brushing my fingers through his sweat drenched curls, I lean in close to his ear and whisper: "I brought you some water and toast, if you think you can manage to take a few bites."

"Mmm," he groans, slowly kicking off the sheets and turning to face me. He doesn't open his eyes, but he is semi-awake. I'm not completely sure if he's coherent or not though.

"Sherlock?" I ask, stroking his cheek, "Love? Can you hear me?" His skin is clammy to the touch and it has turned a sort of sickly grey color. I call his name again and this time he blinks his eyes open.

He groans again, and then stretches his body out slowly as if it were the most painful thing in the world for him to do. I notice his fingers twitching uncontrollably as they scratch at crook of his left arm. He's craving the drugs; anyone could see that. God, this is harder to watch then I thought.

"Fee?" Sherlock slurs, looking up at me with fever glazed eyes, "This…this is horrible."

"I wish there was more I could do," I attempt to comfort, taking his hand into my own, "Do you want some water?" Sherlock wearily nods and I bring the glass to his parched lips. He props himself up on a shaky elbow then takes a small sip. When he's done, I set the glass back down on the bedside table and allow my husband to rest his body against me. I lean back against the headboard and wrap my arms around Sherlock's shaking body.

"Hamish wanted to see you," I whisper in his ear.

"What did you tell him?" Sherlock asks, already closing his eyes again as he rest his head back on my shoulder.

"I told him that you were sick and that you didn't want him to get sick as well. He wanted me to tell you to get better soon."

Sherlock lets out a soft chuckle: "Tell him, I'll…I'll be better tomorrow."

"Will you?" I ask, hopeful that that statement may be true. Sherlock just groans and rolls his head to the side. I can feel the fever radiating off of him and I begin to wonder how much I can really do for him. I'm not a doctor so I don't know what he medically needs. All I can give him is love and support but that only goes so far. He needs a doctor's care, but I can't take him to just any doctor. He's still dead to the rest of the world.

I know what I have to do, but I don't know if I can bring myself to do it.

"Elfie," Sherlock moans, slipping back into a deep sleep, "I…I can't do this."

"Do what, love?" I ask, kissing his warm forehead

"It's too…much. Too horrible." He mumbles, "You should…let me go."

"Hey, hey, hey, don't talk like that." I say, getting stern, "I promised you that we were going to get through this and that's what we're going to do."

"There's no point."

"Yes there is. This is the illness talking, not you. You've got to stay with me, Sherlock. We're going to pass through this, I promise."

"You deserve…better than me. Let. Me. Go."

"Sherlock, stop it. Please your scaring me."

Sherlock lets out a deep groan and curls back in on himself. I carefully make my way out of bed and rest his head down on the pillows. As I pull the covers back up over him, I kiss Sherlock on the lips: "You have a family who loves you." I whisper, "Remember that. Do this for us."

Sherlock is already deeply asleep. I have to make the call now, there's no choice. The sickness I can handle, but the on coming depression is too much. My heart can't take it. I exit the bedroom; head back to the kitchen and pick up my cell phone from the counter. My fingers hover over the number for a moment, then I immediatly shoot off a text:

_Need you at Baker Street. Please. Emergency –EH_

Luckily, the reply comes back almost instantly:

_Are you and Hamish ok? What's wrong? –JW_

_We're fine. It's Sherlock. Please John, I don't know what to do –EH_

There is a longer wait then the first time, which is understandable. He's probably contemplating why or if he should come over. Five minutes pass and I start to think that John's not going to come. It was a long shot anyway, but now what am I going to do? Suddenly, there is a ding from my phone:

_Be there in 15-JW_

My heart skips a beat and I cant help but tear up. I don't know why John's agreed to come, but right now I don't care. I know that he's the only one who can take care of Sherlock and maybe seeing John here will be a sort of pick me up for Sherlock. God, I hope so.

I tell Hamish that he can take his toys upstairs for a bit, then I take a seat on the couch.15 minute's pass and I hear John's footsteps as he climbs up the stairs. I jump up when he reaches the archway and I run to his arms. Immediately, I burst into tears:

"John, I-I I'm just so sorry," I cry, "I know I shouldn't have texted you but-Oh God, John, there's no one else. He's…I don't know, he's just so sick and I can't take the depression. John you have got to help us."

"Shh, hey, hey, take it easy." John soothes, rubbing my back, "I'm here now. Just tell me what's wrong; tell me everything."

Once I've managed to stop my hysterics, I explain the whole situation to John. To my surprise, I don't see a single trace of the anger I saw in him last night. It almost seems like he's no longer furious with Sherlock, which can't be the case. John couldn't have forgiven him just like that, could he? Then again this is John and Sherlock; they do have the most unique bond known to man. Could it be that even after last night, John realizes that Sherlock still needs him. I know that Sherlock calls him and I _us_, but I think that title is more fitting to him and John.

One simply cannot be without the other.

"When did the withdrawal start?" John asks when I'm finished.

"This morning." I reply, "I found him in the bathroom. He's been in bed all morning and I've tried to keep him hydrated. I just don't know what else to do. Look, John, I understand that I have no right asking you to help, but…there's no one else. I know you're mad at him and by all reasons you should be. But I'm asking you this as a woman who wants to help her husband, John. If you could put aside the personal aspects for just a short while, I will forever be in your debt. But please help him, John, please." John sighs heavily then rises off the couch: "Where are you going?" I ask

"Too see my patient," he replies, picking up his med bag that he left in the archway. He then looks back at me and smiles wearily: "I…I may have over reacted a bit last night," he says, "said a few things I maybe shouldn't have. But let's not focus on that right now. Right now…let's just see what I can do for Sherlock."

I smile back at him and follow the good doctor down the hall to the bedroom. I open the door and go inside first: "Sherlock," I whisper, shaking his arm, "wake up. There's…someone here to take a look at you."

Sherlock groans and blinks his eyes open. He looks at me for a moment then turns his gaze to John, who is standing behind me. His face becomes very stern but I can see a small spark of excitement in his eyes. The two just lock eyes and stare at one another: John, taking in the sight of how ill Sherlock really is and Sherlock registering the thought that John is really here. Cautiously, I step back so that I won't be in the way of the two of them.

"You didn't have to come." Sherlock manages to say in the strongest voice he can muster.

"I know and believe me I thought about not coming." John replies, taking a step closer to the bed, "Elfie told me everything."

"Then you know why I'm…like this?" Sherlock asks, struggling but succeeding to sit upright.

"Yes, but I don't care." John states, sitting on the edge of the mattress, "I'll lecture you about when you're better, how's that sound?"

"Can't wait." Sherlock groans, pulling his boney knees in close to his chest. John opens his med kit and starts to ask Sherlock the routine questions. The two just look at each other like they use to and suddenly the world seems right again. I can even already see a bit of light return to Sherlock's eyes. He needed John; that was the key. I may be the man's wife, but like always, I could never be his John Watson.

"John," Sherlock mutters while John jots down a few notes on his notepad, "I shouldn't have lied to you."

"You shouldn't have lied to any of us, your wife included." John replies, "But that doesn't change the fact that you did." He then sets the notepad down and looks Sherlock directly in the eye: "Answer me this, though, Sherlock." he goes on, "You said last night that you were at the funeral yes?"  
Sherlock nods.

"And you watched as we lowered you-the casket in the ground."

"Yes."

"Did you stay after everyone left? Were you there when…Elfie and I said our good-byes?"

"I was, yes."

"Then you know what I asked of you." John states, his voice cracking a bit, "You really could hear what I ask for?"

A small smile, one that I know he only use to give to John, gross across Sherlock's face: "You asked for one more miracle." He replies, "You ask me to stop being dead."

John lets out a shaky breathe then looks down at his lap: "Yeah, yeah that's exactly it." He says, quietly. John clears his throat then looks back at Sherlock; "Well, I guess what I'm trying to say now is…Not that it matters anymore, but...Thanks for listening to me for once, you git."

Sherlock chuckles and they both give each other an understanding nod. "Elfie," my husband says to me without looking my way, "please; don't cry."

"Sorry," I sniffle, drying my eyes on my sleeves, "I'm just…I can't help it."

John chuckles and turns his attention to me: "Would you mind given us a moment, Elfie?" he asks and I quickly nod.

"I'm going to give you some medication now for the pain," I hear John explain to Sherlock as I head out of the room, "If you're feeling up to it tomorrow, I can get you some other medication from the clinic."

"At home prescriptions; is that entirely legal, Doctor?" Sherlock quips, "Did you obtain some form of a rambunctious side with that moustache?"

"I waiting for you to say something about the moustache."

"It's hideous."

"I really don't care what you think about it."

"I know you don't."

I let out a sigh of relief as I hear them chatting like they use to; my boys are back together, just as it should be.

_**Yay! I updated sooner than expected!**_

_**Hope you guys enjoyed that. I wanted to get it up ASAP because, frankly, you guys are awesome and deserve an early update. There are a few chapters left and as I stated before I am already working on another one. Not so sure yet as to when that will be posted because I am starting classes again soon. Ugh.**_

_**Anyway, thanks as always for the comments and favorites and follows.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	17. Chapter 17: Not the Man We Knew

_Chapter 17: Not the Man We Knew_

Almost an hour and a half after the good doctor had given him some medication Sherlock fell asleep again. He had stayed awake for that long just so he could answer whatever questions John had for him. It was the least he could do given the current situation between them. Sherlock's waning strength got the best of him though and he couldn't keep his eyes open. Tip-toeing out of the room, John met me in the kitchen where I had a warm cup of tea waiting for him.

"I never thought I'd see him in this state," I say, tracing a small circle around the rim of my cup with my index finger, "You should have been here when he told me the whole story: where he's been, what he's been doing. God, you should have seen his face, so much pain. He's been hurt, John, mentally and physically. I don't know what I can do for him."

"Fee," John says, sounding very stern, "I'm going to be honest with you. This whole Sherlock coming back thing is not going to be easy and I'm not just talking about the withdrawal. Elfie, this goes beyond that; your husband is clearly suffering with PTSD."

I raise my head and give John a concerned gaze. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; it's a theory that has crossed my mind since Sherlock told me about taking down Moriarty's web, but I never gave it much thought. To be honest, I didn't want to give it much thought. Seeing Sherlock in this state is already enough to make my heart break.

"How can you tell?" I ask

"Because I've been there," John replies with a heavy sigh, "That's not the Sherlock you and I remember laying in that room; that's a man who has been through hell and seen far too much. I don't know what exactly happened to him and I don't really want to find out; I've got all the answers I needed." He takes in another deep breath and looks back toward the bedroom. I don't know what he and Sherlock talked about after I left the room, but I know it's none of my business. That is solely between the two of them. "All that matters now, Fee, is for you to help him get better." John goes on, facing me again, "He needs you by his side, just like always. You've got to pull him out of this."

"But how can I do that, John? I don't know the first thing about treating a PTSD patient! You're the doctor, not me."

"And I will help with the medical part of it, but he really needs something real to bring him back."

"What am I going to tell Hamish?" I ask, "Ever since he came home, Hamish has wanted to spend every moment with Sherlock. How do I explain to him that his father is too ill to see him?"

"Well, consider that part of the healing process," John suggests, "Let Hamish see Sherlock; Not at his lowest of course, but when you feel like it would be good for both of them. That little boy may be the thing to pull him out of depression. You and Hamish are his family and you both love him deeply; help him to see that."

"You say that like he doesn't already know that."

"Not with the depression clouding his mind. Depression changes everything; the world around you seems dull and unimportant. You keep telling yourself that it's going to get better, but there is always this nagging feeling that reminds you that it won't. It's hard to explain, Fee, but when your stuck in this mind set…nothing really seems to matter." John nervously sips his tea and I can tell that this is all a bit too much for him to discuss.

In an attempt to be comforting, I reach across the table and take his free hand into both of my own: "Thank you for coming." I say, looking him directly in the eyes, "Truly, thank you."

John sighs heavily and sets down his cup: "I thought about not coming," he says, taking both my hands into his, "Mary convinced me otherwise. She told me that I had to hear Sherlock out properly before I decide if I hate him or not."

"And do you?" I ask, "Because if you do, I get it. Well, I mean…I'm not okay with it, but…it would make sense if you did."

"Fee, you more than anyone knows that I could never hate Sherlock." John replies with a small chuckle. He then pauses for a moment; thinking about how he's going to say next, then goes on in a solemn voice: "I…I haven't fully forgiven him. To be honest, Fee, I don't know when or if I ever will. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten how much he means to me. That crazy bastard husband of yours always will be my best friend and that will never change. I'm not saying that I'll be running out on a case with him anytime soon…but I'm not saying I won't ever again. I guess…I guess I just need time."

I nod and gently squeeze his hands; I completely understand what he's saying. Sherlock was the only thing that brought John back into the world after coming home from the war thus John owes him everything. But then Sherlock decided to fake his death and, even though it was for his protection, John was devastated. Just like me, Sherlock was his rock; he was heartbroken by the loss. Now, finding out that it was all a façade it's both frustrating and confusing. John needs time to wrap his head around it all. We all do really.

"ELFIE!"

Hearing Sherlock's cry, both John and I spring up from our stools and run to the bedroom. I enter first and immediately go to my husband's side. He is sitting straight up in bed, panting heavily. His eyes are wide with fear and terror and his hands are shaking violently. The sheets are tossed around him as if he had to wrestle free from their clutches. Must have been a nightmare.

"Sherlock?" I ask, taking a seat beside him. Immediately, Sherlock turns his attention to me and cups my face in his sweaty, shaking hands: "F-fee?" he breathes out, "Your…your okay. Your st-still here."

"Of course I am," I say, stroking his arm, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh God, I thought I'd lost you." He whispers, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me in close, "That…that dream. It was so real, too real. There was blood, so much blood, and I thought…it felt like you were gone and…God, your blood was on my hands and it was all so dark and cold and…"

"Hey, hey, hey, hush now. I'm here." I whisper, slowly wrapping my arms around Sherlock's thin frame, "It was just a nightmare. You're safe now. I'm okay and so are you; nothing's going to harm you, I promise."

Sherlock gives off a heavy sigh and repeatedly kisses my cheek, clutching onto me like a child in desperate need for comfort. I turn my head to give John a look and he just nods, understanding that Sherlock and I need a moment alone.

"I'll go check on Hamish," he says, quietly exiting the room. I nod then turn my attention back to Sherlock who has nuzzled his head into the space between my neck and shoulder. I place a kiss on top of his sweat-drenched mop of curls and hold him close.

"I can't do this, Elfie." Sherlock mumbles, "My mind is betraying me and…and I can't live like this. What if I really do hurt you? I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

"Shh, don't talk like that." I whisper, "It was just a dream; nothing to worry about, Sherlock. Everything…everything is going to be okay."

"Please don't leave me," he whispers and it sends shivers up my spine. That always happens when he asks that of me. That phrase means so much more to the two of us then to anyone else. It's the phrase that shows me how human Sherlock Holmes truly is. He always puts up a front, acting like emotions and feelings don't affect him, but I know the truth; I've seen the soft, heartfelt man underneath the armor.

Three times he's begged for me to stay with him. The first was during his case in Baskerville when he scared for his life:

"_I have to get up early. You know that I'd love to stay up and talk but I just can't."_

"_Elfie."_

"_Goodnight, Sherlock. Love you."_

"_Please don't leave me."_

Then when we had our first real fight:

"_Where are you going?"_

"_Home or at least somewhere where I don't have to hear the name Jim Moriarty!"_

"_Elfie!"_

"_Don't, Sherlock!"_

"_Please don't leave me."_

Thirdly was when he truly was on the brink of death:

"_Don't! Don't…leave me."  
"I'm not going anywhere. I promise."_

And now, after three years of absence, he has asked me again to stay with him. Three years, and those words still deeply touch my heart. I think about everything John has just told me and I gulp down my own personal fears about this situation. Sherlock needs me more than ever and now I can't afford to be selfish. Seeing him like this does break my heart, but I have to be strong. I have to be there for him.

"Sherlock?" I whisper, gently stroking his back, "Listen to me okay? We're…we're going to get you through this. I know that it seems like you can't pull yourself out of this, but I know that you can."

"Impossible," he groans into my neck, "I…I can't."

"Yes you can," I go on, "You always could do the impossible, so what's stopping you now?" I slowly move so that I can cup Sherlock's face in my hands. I stare into those amazing eyes of his and take in all the sadness of his gaze; "The man I fell so madly in love with is still in there." I whisper, gently brushing my thumbs along those sharp cheekbones of his, "Please don't make me go through loosing him again. I wouldn't be able to take it. You have a family here that loves you and needs you, so don't you dare back out on us. I promise that I won't leave you, and all I ask is that you return the favor. Please don't leave me, Sherlock Holmes; don't you ever leave me again."

Slowly, Sherlock raises a shaky hand to cheek and brushes my stray tears aside: "My darling, darling, girl," he whispers, "Please…forgive me." We quickly wrap each other in a tight embrace and remain like this for what feels like an eternity. Suddenly, there is a soft knock on the bedroom door. I reluctantly let go of Sherlock to answer it and am surprised to find Hamish standing there with his thumb in his mouth, staring up at me with pleading eyes.

"Hamish, sweetheart, what is it?" I ask, kneeling down to his level.

"Dah," the persistent toddler says, pulling his thumb out of his mouth for just a split second to speak.

"He wants to see him," John explains, rounding the corner, "I tried to keep him occupied on anything else, but...maybe Hamish should see Sherlock. It may help him." I look up at him with a worried glance, but John just nods as if to signify that it would be okay. However, before I can even say anything, Hamish wiggles his way past me and into the bedroom. I quickly stand up and turn around to protest, but stop when I see Sherlock wearily scooping the boy up onto the bed with him.

"Hello, young man." Sherlock says, trying his best to sound like his normal self, "What brings you in here?"

"Miss." Hamish replies, situating his little body to lie beside Sherlock.

"You missed me, is that it?"

"Mhm. Jawn and Mum said I no see you."

"Well, they didn't want you to get sick and neither do I."

"He doesn't care," John adds in, standing beside me in the doorway, "He's your son, Sherlock; Stubborn."

Sherlock chuckles slightly, but begins to cough. I quickly sit on the edge of the mattress and hand him his water from the nightstand. He takes a cautious sip then lies back down on his side. Hamish curls ups in front of him and looks almost identical to his father. See them lying side-by-side and facing one another, I can't help but smile. They are completely oblivious to the fact John and I are in the room and for a moment there, I can see a small smile on Sherlock's tired face.

"Sick?" Hamish asks, setting a pudgy hand on Sherlock's cheek.

"Yes, I'm not feeling very well, Hamish." Sherlock replies, taking the boy's hands into his own, "Not very well at all."

"When get better?"

"I…I wish I knew, young man."

"Soon?"  
Sherlock takes in a deep breath and sighs: "I don't have an answer for you, Hamish. I'm sorry."

"Oh." Hamish says sounding very disappointed.

"Come here." Sherlock coos, gently pulling Hamish in close to him. Hamish curls up onto his father's chest and Sherlock slowly sits up. Seeing him struggle slightly, I gently steady him by the shoulders. I lean back against the headboard of the bed and allow Sherlock to lean back against me.

"I promise you that I will get better." He whispers to Hamish, "It's just going to take some time…a long time. But I will get better. Do you understand?"

"Mhm," Hamish replies, clutching to the collar of Sherlock's gray t-shirt. He then lets out a small yawn and nuzzles his little head under Sherlock's chin; "Nap wit you, Dah?"

"Of course you can," Sherlock whispers, kissing the top of Hamish's head, "That is, if it is okay with your Mum?"

He looks up at me and finally I see my Sherlock in those eyes. "Why wouldn't it be?" I say with a smile. Sherlock smiles back and places a soft kiss on my cheek: "I love you," he whispers, resting his head on my shoulder, "and I'm never going to leave you."

"You better mean it this time," I reply. Sherlock chuckles and slowly closes his eyes. Within minutes, both he and Hamish are fast asleep.

"I never thought I'd see the day," John whispers to me as he tiptoes toward the bed, "Sherlock Holmes napping with a child peacefully sleeping on his chest."

"Call it 'father-son-bonding,'" I whisper in reply, running my fingers through Sherlock's curls, "You said it yourself, John: Sherlock has changed."

"Then maybe he'll get through this sooner then expected." John gently pats me on the shoulder and places a soft kiss on the top of my head: "I'm going to head home; you guys need this time together. Call me if you need anything at all. I'll probably call tomorrow to check up on him."

"I can't thank you enough John," I say, "honestly. I…I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't come."

"It's like I told you, Fee. Sherlock's my best friend, he always will be." We exchange a warm smile and John quietly exits the bedroom, closing the door as he does.

I close my eyes and let out a heavy sigh. I never imagined my life would ever be like this, but then again I never imagined a normal life either. Being with Sherlock always meant that life was going to one intense roller coaster after another, but I don't think anything could have prepared me for the events of the past three years. However, I can't linger on the past. My main focus is here lying beside me: my family. I need to take care of them because without them, I'd be nothing. Gently, I place a soft kiss on Sherlock's forehead and whisper to him again:

"I'll never leave you. I deeply mean it."

0o0o0ooo0o0o0ooo0o0o0o0o0o0

"Mum, look! Look!"

"What is it, sweetheart?"  
"Look!"

I enter the living room from the kitchen to see what my eager toddler is so excited about. A bright smile grows across my face as I see Greg Lestrade coming up the stairs: "Greg! What a lovely surprise." I say, dusting my hands off on my sweat pants, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"  
"Just a casual visit, Elfie." He says, giving me a warm hug, "How are you?"

"Good, really good." I reply.

"That's wonderful to hear. To be honest I thought you'd still be a bit shaken by that voice recording."

My cheeks blush a sort of embarrassed pink; I had forgotten that not everyone knows Sherlock is alive. I want to tell the news to Lestrade, but I'll leave that for Sherlock. I'm sure he has some dramatic reveal planed.

"Oh, um, yeah well, no point on lingering on it." I sheepishly reply, "Got to move on, you know. I've got Hamish to think about."

"Yes, of course."

"Hello!" Hamish squeals, pulling on Lestrade's pant leg. He hasn't figured out how to say Lestrade or Greg just yet so he's settled with not using names for the Detective Inspector for the time being.

"Yes, hello to you too Hamish." Lestrade says, giving Hamish a quick hug, "Goodness you've grown. What have you been up to?" Hamish just giggles then scurries off down the hallway; "Boy, he's full of energy."

"He just got up from his nap a couple of hours ago plus I told him I'd make pancakes for dinner," I reply with a chuckle, "So yeah, he's a bit excited at the moment."

"Where's John?"

"At his new place; He's getting married."

"Really? Good for him then! Lucky woman!"

I give Greg a warm smile then head back to the kitchen to heat some water: "Have a seat, Greg. I'll put the kettle on if you'd like."

"Ah, no thanks," he replies, following me, "I actually just stopped by to see if you wanted to take a look at this."

I furrow my brow in confusion as Lestrade cautiously hands me the manila folder he's been holding under his arm. I take the folder and look over it's contents. It's the file for the Sebastian Moran case, complete with crime scene photos, autopsy report, etc. Different images flash through my mind and nervously bite my lower lip.

"Greg, you can't show me this," I say, gulping down the large lump that has just developed in my throat, "I'm not allowed to look at classified case information."

"It's not classified until I say it is," he replies, "Besides, it's not even complete. I mean sure we found the body and discovered the cause of death, but there's no murder weapon, no motive for him to even be in this area let alone why anyone would want to kill him. Look, I thought you might want to have quick look over to see if…"

"If what?" I ask, giving him a questioning look.

Lestrade sheepishly smiles and looks down at his shoes: "I was wondering if you'd catch anything we may have missed," he admits, "Something just seems to be missing from this whole Moran thing; the big picture, you know. Mycroft was of no help to me other then turning over Moran's belongings, but that lead us nowhere. Anderson determined that the location of the body was not the crime scene, but…well, I could've told you that. It wasn't all that difficult to figure out. What I want to know is why: Why was Moran in this area? Why was he killed?"

"Greg, are…are you asking me to be on this case?" I ask with a small chuckle, "Because if you are, then I'm afraid you have the wrong Holmes."

"Aw, come on, you lived with the man," Lestrade says with a bit of encouragement in his tone, "Look, just have a go at the file and tell me if anything seems off to you."

"You asking for my opinion on a case seems off to me." I reply, "Anyway, I wouldn't even know what to look for. I'm sorry, Greg, but I just don't feel comfortable consulting or whatever you want to call it."

"Yeah, it was odd of me to ask," Lestrade grumbles, giving off a defeated sigh, "It's just-I guess what I'm trying to say is that the Yard needs some…help."

"Help?" I ask, setting the file down on the kitchen counter,

"We haven't had a successful investigation since Sherlock's death." Lestrade explains, "Sure, the basic homicides and petty thievery are easy enough to solve on our own, but-Cases that would take us a couple of weeks to solve now take us months. Sherlock had that spark about him, ya know? The boss wants better results but there's only so much we can do. It's not like the old days where I could just…"

"Call Sherlock." I finish for him.

Lestrade looks up at me with sad eyes and nods: "Your husband was more help to us then any of us realized." He says, "I'll never forgive myself for how it ended between the Yard and him. I believed in Sherlock Holmes, Elfie. But that's not going to bring him back, is it?"

"Greg," I say, setting an affirmative hand on his shoulder, "you should know that I don't hold you responsible for anything that happened. You should also know the truth."

"The truth?" he asks, folding his arms across his chest, "About what exactly?"

"Sebastian Moran," I cautiously reply, "I…I know why he was so close to Baker Street. More importantly, I know how he ended up dead."

"Go on," Greg says, snapping into Detective Inspector mode. I am about to go on, but then we hear an all too familiar baritone voice begin one of its infamous monologues from the archway:

"Sebastian Moran. Formally Colonel Moran of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, but was 'honorably discharged' for unruly behavior. Since is discharge, Moran was making his living as a hired gun: easy to tell by both his size and stature. What other living could a man of his appearance and specific skills set have other than that of an assassin. That would also explain how he got his hands on a weapon like the one found in his gym bag as well as the necessary supplies he carried around with him.

As you so cleverly figured out, Detective Inspector, Moran died from a single gunshot wound to the chest. Judging from the bruises and scars over the body, however, there appears to have been a struggle been him and his murder. It of course did not happen at the location of where you found the body. The scene of the crime was close by though since the murder had to drag Moran's body. That is clear to you, is it not? The scuffmarks on the heels of Moran's combat boots can tell you that. The killer dragged Moran out of the building-because they were in an abandoned building-as far as he could, left him there, took his bag and the murder weapon, and then left the scene.

As for motive, well, that does take some more looking into. Obviously Moran was hired to kill some one in this area; why else would he be hiding out on Baker Street? Perhaps his target was already gone as he was waiting around for more direction from his employer to see what the next move would be. Or maybe he was just waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Either way, he is no longer a threat to the residents of 221B.

So you see, it's all quite elementary Detective Inspector. I hardly think you needed outside help to solve all that. As always, you simply see but you do not observe."

A small smile gross across my face as I watch the baffled Detective Inspector turn around to see Sherlock for the first time in three years. My husband, dressed in his grey sweat pants, is leaning in the kitchen archway and casually flipping through the file as if he hadn't a care in the world. Hamish is clutched to his leg and giggling at the surprised look on Lestrade's face.

"Sh-sherlock." Greg finally says after a few moments of just staring, "You…you're here. But-but that's not…you were dead and…Bloody hell!"

"If you wouldn't mind, Lestrade, my son is present." Sherlock says, looking up from the file and giving Lestrade his signature half-mouth smirk. He almost seems like his old self right now, happily scoring off Lestrade by giving one of his infamous monologues. I see that spark in his eyes that he used to get when he was on a case and it fills my heart with hope. One would hardly believe that this was the same man as the one in bed this morning.

Lestrade cautiously takes a step closer to Sherlock and looks him up and down: "You…you look…"

"Like crap, I know." Sherlock quickly replies, "Blame it on three years of living on the run and not making the best choices."

"No, no, no, I mean…you look good, for a dead man." Lestrade nervously says.

Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion: "You do understand that that phrase makes entirely no sense at all, yes?"

"Oh my God it really is you." Lestrade chuckles as he suddenly pulls Sherlock in for a tight hug. I laugh as I watch Sherlock stumble back a bit in shock, but then awkwardly return the gesture. He never enjoyed physical interaction with others, well, except for me.

"How?" Lestrade asks after a few more minutes of hugging.

"How did I know all about Sebastian Moran?" Sherlock says, "Simple: I was the man who killed him."

"Sherlock!" I exclaim, afraid that my husband may get himself in more trouble then he needs to be right now.

"Oh, come off it, darling, you know it's the truth," Sherlock replies in his arrogant way, "The Yard was bound to figure that out eventually, now that I've revealed myself."

"No, I mean how did you survive?" Lestrade goes on, ignoring what Sherlock has just said, "I saw your body at the morgue, myself. You most definitely dead."

"Your answer may take a long while to explain," Sherlock says, rather calmly, "Elfie can give you the short of it all in due time."

"You knew he was alive?" Lestrade asks, turning to me now.

"Not until a few days ago," I reply.

Greg shakes his head in disbelief and turns back to Sherlock; "You're a new man." He says, "I can see it."

"Faking one's death thus being forced away from one's family can affect a man," Sherlock replies, ruffling Hamish's hair.

"It is good to see you, Sherlock." Lestrade says, wiping tears from his eyes, "Honestly, it is really good to see you."

"You may be surprised to know, that my sentiment is the same." Sherlock replies.

"Did you just use the word sentiment? Bloody hell, have you changed all that much?"

"I'd rather not discuss that right now." Sherlock looks to me and I go to his side to comfort him. He doesn't want Lestrade to know about the drugs and that, of course, is reasonable.

"Well, what will you discuss?" Greg asks, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, "Because trust me, mate, you've got a lot of explaining to do."

"I am aware of that, Lestrade, but that is not my main focus." Sherlock replies, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, "My family is what is important right now. I've been without them for far too long."

Lestrade smiles and shakes his disbelief as he looks at us: "Sherlock Holmes, a doting father and husband. That's something I thought I'd never see."

"Don't tell anyone yet, Greg." I say, wrapping my arms around Sherlock's waist, "I don't want people calling nonstop or anything like that."

"Yes, tell no one." Sherlock agrees, "Not until I'm ready."

"Of course, of course, you guys need your privacy." Greg replies, "I won't tell a soul."

"Thank you, however, I must ask another favor of you." Sherlock says. I look at him slightly confused; what could Sherlock possibly need from Lestrade?

"Of course, what do you need?" Greg asks

"I won't be resurfacing to the public eye for quite some time," Sherlock explains, "however, when I do, I wish to return to my previous position with the Yard."

"Sherlock, trust me, I'd love to have you back but…well, if you remember, your reputation was ruined." Lestrade says, nervously, running a hand over his shaved head, "And if you did kill Moran, I highly doubt the Yard will welcome you back with open arms."

"That's where I need your help, Lestrade."

"My help?"  
"Yes. I need you to get me a copy of the file of the last case I worked on with you as well as all the information you can collect on the man who ruined my name; that so-called actor Richard Brook."

"What do you need all that for?"  
Sherlock's gaze becomes very cold and stern and I feel a twinge of fear crawling up my spine: "I need to eliminate Richard Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty." My husband practically hisses, "I need to clear my name."

_**Hello all!**_

_**Sorry that this chapter is a bit off. I just got a new acting gig and haven't had a lot of free time. I hope you all enjoyed it though; this is kind of a set up for my next story. I'll tell you all more about it in the next chapters or so :)**_

_**Thanks as always for the comments, follows and favorites. For those of you who may not have read it yet or may want to, I posted Sherlock and Elfie's wedding in my prequel story 'The Pleasure is Mine, Mr. Holmes.' Have a look at it if you'd like. **_

_**I hope to update soon all though my schedule is driving me wild. My new show is a blast but a lot of hard work. Bare with me guys. I still love you all.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	18. Chapter 18: Back to Before

_Chapter 18: Back to Before_

Over the course of the next few days, things are almost as they were before Sherlock left. I unpacked my husband's old things (laptop, some science equipment, etc.) and returned them to their proper places. Placing the skull on the mantelpiece did make me tear up a bit; things are getting back to normal around here. The living room has returned to its previous state of semi-organized clutter instead now it is a combination of Hamish's things as well as his father's. The kitchen has yet to be touched but I have a feeling that it be too long until I have to check the fridge for body parts again.

Sherlock has remained sick in his room, but the depression does not seem as bad as before. He'll try and get out of bed as often as he can, but he's strength is not what it used to be. Some days Sherlock's fine: sick but pushing through it. Some days he's not: cold, shut out from the world. The night terrors are the worst. They don't happen every night, but when they do I feel like I'm up with a newborn all over again.

In the middle of the night, Sherlock will start to move around, twitching and mumbling feverish nothings. I'll lean over and attempt to shake him awake, but it never does any good. The mumbles become whines and cries for help and the twitching becomes frantic movements as if he were fighting off some imaginary attacker. I know when it's over when he'll let out one final cry as he shoots his eyes open in shock and sits straight up in bed, panting and sweating like someone who's just run a marathon.

"Elfie? Darling, where are you?" He cries and I'll quickly wrap him up in my arms and begin to calm him down.

"You're okay, love." I coo, gently pulling him against my body as we lay back down, "Don't you fret; I am here. You're safe."

We'll remain like that for as long as necessary. Eventually Sherlock will drift back asleep, arms wrapped around me and cuddling as close to me as possible. In the morning, I'll ask him what he dreamt about that caused him to be so distressed, but Sherlock won't say a word on the topic. I know that he's storing these nightmares in some obscure section of his mind palace, never to be heard of or thought of ever again, but that won't do him any good. He has to face his demons eventually.

It's a gamble every day with Sherlock being like this; will today be a high or a low? During his highs, he's my old Sherlock again, but during the lows I can barely recognize him. John has either called or stopped by everyday to check on him as well as give him the appropriate medication. That helps, but I think this is going to take much more then a few pills to pull him through this. He's a broken version of who he was and there are going to be many pieces to put the consulting detective back together again.

The case files that Lestrade brought over, however, seem to be just the thing to keep Sherlock's mood stable. On his good days, Sherlock will sit up in bed and flip through the evidence, trying his best to piece together Moriarty's messy plot and show some proof that he was set up as a fraud. If he can prove to the world that everything that was said about him three years ago was a lie-which I have no doubt that he will-then Sherlock can get back to his normal life again. I think that's all that he truly wants now. He wants to be home at 221b and get back into the world of solving cases. It's what he was put on this earth to do and he's been absent from that for far to long.

Despite whatever mood Sherlock may be in, Hamish is always popping in to see him. We (during one of the few times Sherlock was feeling well enough to do so) moved Hamish's things up to John's old room and Hamish likes to spend most of his time up there. However, come time for his afternoon nap, Hamish will scurry into our bedroom and climb into bed beside Sherlock. I don't mind it and neither does Sherlock: If it makes our son happy, then why fight it? When his nap is over, I'll peek into the bedroom to check up on Hamish and find him sitting in Sherlock's lap and listening to his father explain what exactly it is he's doing:

"You see, Hamish, this is what I use to do before I left; I was a detective."

"De…de…"

"Yes that may be too difficult of a word for you to understand. Let's see, um, well-When people needed help finding things or other people, they'd call me."

"Oh! Poleece!"

"Sort of. I helped the police quite a lot. That's how Mum and John and I know Lestrade."

"Oh. Mummy says you get bad guys?"

"Yes, I would sometimes get the bad guys."

"Superhero!"

"Not exactly, no. I use my brain, Hamish, not any special powers or things like that. Everything I need is in my mind. Here, let me show you."

I'd be lying if I said that seeing Sherlock teach his almost two-year-old son about being a consulting detective didn't warm my heart. Sherlock is Hamish's hero, he always has been. Every night during Sherlock's absence, I would tell Hamish a bedtime story about his father and the many cases he and John would go on; obviously, I didn't go into immense detail about each one and I left out the more obscure ones. Now, he asks Sherlock about them all of the time, particularly about his favorite one about the hound. They are inseparable, and it makes me feel whole again. Deep down, I have always wanted a family and now I have it. We may not be perfect but that really doesn't matter. We have each other...and I never thought that would happen.

On this particular morning, I blink my eyes open and deeply inhale the scent of my husband's long dark curls. Last night was a good, actually one of the best in quite a long time: not a single interruption. Careful not to wake him, I lift my head from Sherlock's shoulder and take a good look at his sleeping face. I always found him the most handsome when he was asleep, don't know why. Maybe it's because it's the rare time in which that magnificent brain of his isn't working hundred miles a minutes on a case; He's, quite literally, at rest.

I gently set a hand on his bare chest and use my other one to gently stroke his cheek. There is soft fuzz of facial hair growing in, giving Sherlock a much older look. I don't mind it, really; it's just different. I'm sure he'll shave it off when he's feeling up to it.

Pushing the though aside, my fingers gently trace their way up the side of Sherlock's face and into his unruly mop of curls. That scar on the corner of his forehead is clearly visible to me and I find myself staring thoughtfully at it. I wonder what it felt like that day, standing on that ledge, thinking that this could very well mean the end. Was he scared? What was his last thought before it all went black? Did he even remember landing? I know it's morbid to think about but I can't help but be curious about that day. It was, after all, the day that changed our lives forever.

"Enjoying the view?" Sherlock sleepily mumbles, setting his hand atop my own on his chest. I bashfully giggle as he slowly opens his eyes; those beautiful, mesmerizing, sea foam eyes still shining as bright as they did the day I first saw them. A small smile grows across his face as our gazes lock on one another. Ah, today is a good day then. Better make the best of it then.

"Did I wake you?" I ask, hooking my free hand behind his neck. Sherlock shakes his head as he raises it so that our lips can meet in a soft kiss. A sort of urge fills my heart and I slowly open my mouth just a tad to invite Sherlock to deepen the kiss. Fortunately he does. The urge continues to grow thus I gently situate myself so that I am lying on top of my husband, cupping his face in my hands and deepening our passionate lip lock even more. Sherlock rubs his hands up and down my back as he hooks his legs with my own. His breathing is hot and heavy and I can tell that he's thinking the same thing I am.

"I just got up darling," he breathes out when our lips finally part, "It's a bit early for this, don't you think?"

"Don't act like you don't want to." I tease, placing a row of soft kisses along one of his sharp cheekbones. He lets out a deep baritone chuckle then suddenly flips me onto my back. I giggle with delight as my husband looms over me, kissing me and wrapping his arms around me in a tight embrace. I hold him in return as well and trace my lips up his neck: "You do realize that we've only made love once since you've come back?" I whisper, nibbling at his earlobe.

"Allow me to fix that then, darling." Sherlock replies.

"Oh, but I thought it was too early?"

"Just shut up and kiss me, Elfie."

Our lips come crashing together and we begin to quickly escalate our romance: tangling our fingers in each other's hair, moving in motion with each other, making a proper mess of the sheets around us. Just as things are about to reach the perfect moment, there is a loud buzzing coming from the bedside table. A phone: a very loud, obnoxious, inconvenient phone. Whether it's Sherlock's cell or mine, I don't really care. All I know is that it has ruined a perfect moment.

"God damn it," I sigh in annoyance.

"Can't be that important, love," Sherlock replies, reaching over to cease the phone from vibrating, "Give me a minute and I'm all yours."

"I thought you always were mine," I tease It's his but I don't know who could be calling; the only people who would even consider calling him are John and Lestrade, everyone else thinks he's still dead. Reluctantly getting off of me, Sherlock lays on his back and puts the phone to his ear:

"Hello...Lestrade, yes…No, no I've just awoken…You can come by in about two hours, possibly more…Because my wife and I haven't gotten out of bed yet, that's why."

I giggle at Sherlock's sass and curl up beside him, resting my head on his bare chest and listening to his steady heartbeat. Wonder what Lestrade needs? It must be important if he felt the need to call this early in the morning.

"The files? Yes, I'm finished with them." Sherlock goes on, hooking an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in closer, "I have all the information you need and you know what do from here…Yes, that's right…Yes, I know exactly what I'm doing…No, I don't wish to hear your opinion on the matter. I've made my decision thus…No, no, I haven't told her yet…I will tell her at the appropriate moment…that's none of your concern, Detective Inspector."

"Who, me?" I ask, raising my head a bit, "What are you going to tell me?"

Sherlock shakes his head a bit to signify that now is not the time so I just roll my eyes and return to my previous position beside him, listening in on one half of the phone call: "Lestrade, this needs to be done…I don't care…Fine. When will you be by? I'll leave them for you on the…No, absolutely not." Sherlock suddenly sits up in bed, his back ramrod straight. His face is stone and his voice is much more stern, which worries me. I set a hand on his shoulder, but he quickly gets out of bed and starts to pace back and forth: "Do not bring her over here…In case you've forgotten, I'm suppose to be dead. Bringing her over here will only cause more issues and I…I don't care if she'll be staying in the car, I don't want her anywhere near here and neither does Elfie…Fine, fine, do whatever you want. I'll have the files for you. Goodbye."

Sherlock presses the end call button, tosses the phone onto the bedside table then rubs his hands up and down his face in annoyance: "Stupid." He breathes out, setting his hands on hips, "Stupid."

"What's stupid, love?" I ask, propping myself up on my elbows.

"Not what, who." He says, "Lestrade will be stopping by later today to pick up the files I've been working on and he thinks he can bring Sgt. Donovan over her as if there isn't a problem in the world. Obviously he didn't think that through properly."  
A surge of anger quickly develops in my gut. After pretty much kick starting the 'Sherlock Holmes is a fraud' scheme, Donovan took a sort of pride in herself. She was proud that she had played a part in making the world, in her own words, "realize that he was just a freak." John has said that he'll never forget that grin she had on her face when the officers had put those handcuffs on Sherlock and escorted him out of 221B: So proud, so arrogant. I hold her partially responsible for Sherlock's 'death'. True, this was all Moriarty's plan but the fact that she held no remorse or felt any grief about his suicide just made me sick. It still does!

"Stupid." I grumble, not realizing that I just echoed my husband perfectly. Sherlock gives me a small smile and holds a hand out to me. I gladly take it and rise up out of bed; "Sherlock, what did you mean by 'tell her at the appropriate moment'?" I ask, not wanting to linger on the thought of Sgt. Donovan any longer than need be, "You were talking about me, right?"  
"Yes," he replies, pulling me in close and wrapping his arms around my waist, "I…I want to discuss something with you."

"I don't like that tone," I say, giving him a quizzical look, "You never want to discuss things."

"Yes, I do. That's what a husband and wife are suppose to do, isn't it?"

"In theory, yes, but Sherlock let's be honest; you never discuss things. You make your own decisions and then expect everyone to agree with you."

"I…Okay, your right, but that's not important right now." I chuckle and rest my hands on Sherlock's chest. He smiles at me and nuzzles his forehead against my own: "You truly are beautiful, Elfie Marie. How did I get so lucky to have you in my life?"

"As much as I enjoy the complement, my wonderful genius, I get the feeling your avoiding telling me something." I reply with a smile, "What's going on?"

Sherlock sighs heavily and places a soft kiss on my forehead: "I've decided to reenter the world," he says with a hint of regret, "I'm through with hiding and running. I need to face my demons and get my life back in order."

"That's…that's actually great to hear," I reply, pulling back a bit to properly face him, "Are you sure your feeling well enough?"

"Some days I'm fine, some are a little bit harder; this you already know." He says, "My health is…complicated at the moment, but I can't let that hold me back. I need to get my life back, Elfie, and now I have the means to do so."

"How?"

"I've been studying the files Lestrade has given me. With the evidence that is already present as well as the information I have obtained for myself, I can prove that Moriarty was in fact a real person and that Richard Brook was a fiction he created to ensure my downfall. True, I can't just come out and announce this to the world, which is where the Yard will come in to play.

Lestrade will hold a press conference in which he will say that an investigation has been taking place into the matter of my suicide. I don't know what exact details he will entail, but all in all he will make it known that new evidence has shown that I am, or rather was, who I claimed to be. Afterwards, I will make an appearance and thus explain how I was able to survive and where I was and what I was doing these past three years. It's a gamble, yes, and not my best of plans I'll admit, but this is the only option I see."

"Sherlock I…I don't know what to say." I reply, shaking my head in disbelief, "I mean, I'm proud of you for taking such a risk, but…What if it doesn't work out the way you want it too? The press won't just take you back as a hero in he blink of an eye."

"I understand that, Elfie, I really do." He says, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear and cupping the left side of my face, "But it's a risk I'm willing to make. I want my old life back, Fee. I know it want be easy but I just can't live like this anymore."

I nod in agreement then give him a comforting hug; "What do you need me to do?" I ask, nuzzling my head under his chin "Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?"

"Just stay with me," Sherlock contently replies, holding me in return, "Stay by my side like you always have, my darling, darling girl."

"You know I always will," I say, placing a soft kiss on his bare chest, "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"And I love you, Elfie Holmes." Our eyes meet for short moment and we exchange a soft kiss on the lips. A thought pops into my head and I can't help but smile proudly at my confused husband: "What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Well, it's just that, this is first time you've been fully out of bed in almost three days." I say, brushing back some of his stray curls, "It's a nice change."

Sherlock smiles back and nuzzles his forehead against mine again: "It's because of you, you know," he says, cupping my face in his hands, "Thanks to you and our son, I have a reason to get out of bed and get better. Some days, I feel like there is no end to this nightmare, but other days…like today…I know that I can get better. My only regret is that you have to witness it all. I never wanted to put you through this sort of fairground ride of emotions, my darling. Can you ever forgive me for this?"

"Sherlock Holmes, haven't you figured it out yet that I will always forgive you?" I reply, rubbing his shoulders, "I remained loyal to you and only you even when I believed you to be dead. You'll never drive me away and I'll never leave you. How many times do I have to tell you that until you believe it?"

My husband lets out a small chuckle and we kiss again, returning to the mood that we were in before we were so rudely interrupted.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Later that afternoon, while Sherlock and Hamish are seated on the floor of the living room fiddling with miscellaneous toys and I sitting on the couch with a book, John makes his way upstairs for his daily visit.

"Hello." He says gently knocking on the frame of the archway.

I look up from my book and smile warmly at him; "Hey, John." I say, getting up and giving him a hug. He hugs me back and places a small kiss on my cheek.

"Jawn!" Hamish exclaims, getting up from his father's lap and waddling over to hug his godfather.

"Hello, Hamish," John says, scoping the boy up into his arms, "How are you today?"

"Good. Look!" Hamish giggles and points to Sherlock, "Dad up!"

"Would you look at that?" John chuckles, giving Sherlock a small nod, "You're out of bed and dressed; you must be feeling quite a bit better today."

"Oh, how I've missed your intriguing deductions, John." Sherlock replies sarcastically.

"And how I've missed your always so kind remarks, Sherlock." John quips back with the same amount of sarcasm.

Sherlock gives him an 'I'm impressed' look and slowly rises to his feet: "So, what shall it be today, Doctor Watson?" he says, dusting off his trousers, "More medication, questions about 'how I'm feeling', all the usual drag?"

"Don't be so rude," I say, taking Hamish into my arms, "John could very well walk out of here and leave you to get better all on your own."

"It's alright, Fee." John says, "To be quite honest, it's a relief to see Sherlock is back to being an annoying jerk." He and Sherlock exchange a quick smirk then Sherlock turns toward the window to watch the people down below for a little bit. Hamish quickly wiggles out of my arms and goes to Sherlock's side.

"Dad, way fur me." He babbles, waddling over to the window. I can't help but giggle as I watch my son tug on his father's trouser leg just before Sherlock picks him up and cradles him in his arms.

"Whatcha doin, Dad?" Hamish asks, leaning back against Sherlock's chest.

"Watching people." Sherlock replies, gently rocking Hamish back and forth.

"Why?"  
"Because that's how I know what's going on in the world. It's how I learn about people, Hamish. I watch."

"Cause you a Detective!"

"Yes, that's right. Good man."

Seeing that they need this little bit of time alone, I head toward the kitchen, gently tugging on John's jacket so that he can follow me.

"'Detective'," John says in disbelief, "That's a big word for an 18 month old to say."

"Blame it on his father," I jokingly reply, prepping the kettle to make some tea, "Sherlock's been teaching Hamish all sorts of new words: all appropriate, I'm assured. Did you notice he's saying 'Dad' now instead of 'Dah' as well? He's getting close to actually forming sentences too. He's a Holmes, so I'm not immensely surprised by his quick learning skills."

"Pretty soon you're going to have two Sherlock's on your hands," John says, leaning back against the counter, "They're inseparable, aren't they?"

"That's putting it lightly," I say with a nod, "Hamish will barely let Sherlock out of his sight."

"That's good though, for both of them." John says, stuffing his hands into his pockets, "How's Hamish been handling Sherlock being sick, though?"

"Doesn't mind it." I reply, "Hamish will crawl into bed beside Sherlock just to spend time with him. I'm telling you, John, they are never far apart."

John chuckles and takes another look at Sherlock and Hamish, who are mumbling to themselves about God only knows what. "And how is Sherlock doing today, really?" he asks me in a low voice, "He looks better, but I don't think even Sherlock can get over withdrawal that quickly."

"Good. Really good, actually," I say, getting out some cups, "He actually got out of bed this morning, which is a big step, and managed to get dressed. He didn't eat much for breakfast, just some toast, but other than that he's been fine."

"How did he sleep? Are those nightmares still happening?"

"Yes, but not last night. He slept rather peacefully. He was in a good mood this morning…a really good mood actually." My cheeks turn a bright pink and I bite my lower lip nervously as I recall our morning activities: "He, um, we even…you know."

John furrows his brow in confusion then realizes what I'm really saying: "Ah, I see," he says, "By 'good mood' you mean that he was in the mood to shag."

"John," I playfully scold, "Hamish is in the next room. Keep your voice down." John just laughs and takes the cup I am offering him. "Any way, Sherlock was almost like his old self this morning," I go on, prepping my own cup of tea, "that was until Lestrade called. I think that kind of put him off."

"What did Lestrade want?" John asks, furrowing his brow.

"Sherlock is apparently ready to reenter the world," I reply, "Lestrade is helping him, I think. I don't know though, Sherlock only just told me about it this morning and it wasn't really clear to me what the actual plan is."

John nods then looks back toward Sherlock with a worried gaze: "Do you think he's really ready? I mean, he may be feeling better but that's just on the outside. What if it's all too much for him?"

"How do you mean?" I ask, "This is Sherlock were talking about here. His work is his life and it's been beating him up inside to not go back to it. All he really wants is to go back to before."

"Before he wasn't addicted to morphine and cocaine, Fee." John replies, sounding more like a concerned doctor then a concerned friend, "Both are highly addictive drugs and thus he could easily become tempted to use again. That's the sad truth of it. I'm not saying he isn't going to be as amazing as he always was nor am I saying he will relapse, but…we have to think of the reality here, Elfie."

Pausing for a moment, I try to collect my thoughts. I understand John's concern and I would be lying if I didn't say I was thinking the same thing, but part of me knows that Sherlock can't stay cooped up at 221b forever: "What are you suggesting, John? That I tell him to stay at home and not clear his name?" I ask, "I can assure you, that will not go over well with my husband."

"I'm not saying that," John replies, turning to me again, "I'm just saying…"

"That I should really think about my decision." John and I both turn to look at Sherlock who is now leaning in the kitchen archway with a smiling Hamish resting on his hip: "Hamish, can you give us a minute?" Sherlock says, gently setting his son on the ground, "Mum and John and I need to talk for a bit."

"I talk too," Hamish replies with a grin.

"Yes, I know you can talk and you do it very well." Sherlock says with a chuckle, "but this is for us adults, alright?"

"You can go play in our bedroom if you'd like Hamish," I say, trying to help.

"Dull." Hamish replies and I think that John is going to spit out his tea he's so taken back.

"Blimmey," he says, clearing his throat, "he really his a mini-Sherlock."

"Oh, haven't I told you?" I say, "'Dull' is his new favorite word."

"Hamish," Sherlock says, kneeling down so that he is eye to eye with the toddler, "please go and play in the bedroom. Mum and I will come and get you when we're done, alright?"

"Story?"

"You can have a story when we're done, yes."

"Deal." Hamish giggles, sticking his thumb in his mouth and waddling away down the hall. I walk to the archway to watch and make sure he makes it there all right.

"I'll never get over the sight of you as a father," John says.

Sherlock chuckles slightly then rises to his feet, groaning a little at the pain of his joints. He hasn't had this much physical movement in days so it's only natural that he hurts a bit. I help him stand upright, then gently wrap my arms around his middle to both steady him and give him some comfort.

"Shall we continue on the topic you were discussing?" Sherlock asks, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

"I was just saying that maybe you should really think about going back to work so soon." John says.

"Soon?" Sherlock says with a smirk, "John, it's been three years. I haven't been able to work and quite frankly I'm fed up with it. Look, you both know more than anyone else that I never do anything without thinking it through all the way and I promise you now, my choice to resurface at this point in time has not been made lightly."

"I believe you, Sherlock, honestly." John says, "I'm just worried about your health. No one wants you to relapse."

"Nor do I, John." Sherlock says, rubbing my arm, "However I must ask for your support in this, as well as yours Elfie."

"Of course," I say, "but listen to what John has to say, honey. He has a valid point."

Sherlock rolls his eyes then turns his gaze to John: "What do you want me to say? Do want to know the plan?" he asks, but John just shakes his head.

"No, I…I trust your judgment." He replies

"You seem tentative about that statement." Sherlock points out.

"Well, the last time I trusted you, you wound up on a rooftop." John quips back, "I understand that that was a different situation, but…well, I guess my point is…"

"Do spit it out, John," Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes, "there's no point in you stuttering like a-Ow!" I smack my husband's elbow before he can finish and give him a 'be nice' glare. Honestly, he could show at least an ounce of gratitude.

"I don't want to bury you again." John finally admits. The air tightens a bit in the room as we slip into an awkward silence. I never thought of Sherlock going back to solving cases like that before. Before, I always accepted the danger and chaos that came along with Sherlock's line of work, but now…things are different. We have a son who can't stand to be without Sherlock for more than 10 minutes. What would happen if a case went wrong and Sherlock wasn't going to come home? I don't know if my heart could handle all of that again. No, I know for I fact that I would be able to handle it.

"Whether it be to the drugs or some other danger a case may bring on, you are putting yourself back in the line of fire." John goes on, "You do realize that, yes?"

"My life has always consisted of danger," Sherlock replies, "that's nothing new."

"Yes, but what John is saying is that you are a new man, Sherlock." I quip in, trying my best hide my on coming tears, "You've been through so much these past few years; we all have. John and I are just concerned for your welfare and…he's right. I can't go through loosing you again. I won't."

Hearing the sadness in my voice, Sherlock looks me in eyes and cups my face in his hands. "Do you not want me to go back to work?" he asks, looking at me with worried eyes.

"I think you should just take things a bit slower than you use to," I reply, "I love you and I have always understood that your line of work is dangerous. But just like John said, you are not the man you use to be. Putting your health aside, you're a father, Sherlock, as well as my husband. Hamish and I need you. I'm not telling you not to go back to being the genius detective that I know you are destined to be. I'm only asking you to be careful."

Sherlock sighs heavily and kisses my forehead: "I promise you that I will be." He whispers into my hair. I nuzzle my head under his chin and we hold each other close; "The last thing I want is to be parted from you again," Sherlock goes on, resting his head atop my own, "I won't let that happen."

"Sherlock," John says, "how do you plan on even accomplishing this?"  
"I told you, John, I have a plan." Sherlock replies, "And, John?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock clears his throat a bit and straightens his back: "I…I know that you have moved on with your life, what with your engagement and everything." He goes on, sounding almost child like, "And I also understand that I have no right to ask this of you."

"Ask what?" John says, becoming intrigued. I lift my head from Sherlock's chest and watch his face as he tries to think of how to properly form his thoughts into words. What has got him so frazzled all of a sudden? Slowly, Sherlock releases his hold on me then turns to face John fully. After taking a deep breathe, Sherlock looks at John in the way he always use to when they were working together:

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"When I return to work will-will you…will you continue to assist me? I don't mean to sound so sentimental; John, it won't feel right solving cases without you. I never expressed it enough before, but your assistance is invaluable to me."

"Sherlock, I…"

"Have your own life now, I know and in all honesty I am happy for you. But, John, I can't complete my work without you. I never told you, but I always considered us a team. What I said to you that day, when I was on the roof, I…I hated the fact I had to lie to you. Believe me when I say, I will never forgive myself for it. But this can be a chance to restore our partnership, John. Don't you remember it all? The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world: I've missed it, don't you? Of course, if you feel like that life is behind you, I completely understand. But in my mind, well…I can't be who I was without my blogger, now can I?"

Placing a hand over my mouth to hide my joy, I watch as John just stares at Sherlock, completely taken back by the amount of emotion in Sherlock's voice. He's speechless. Here is this man he use to know to be famously unemotional, practically begging for him to come back to work with him. Even before the fall, Sherlock never talked to John like that; so caring and kind. They always knew that they were best friends but I think these three years apart have given them the assurance of how badly they need each other. Sherlock's right; they're a team. Holmes and Watson, together till the bitter end.

All of us, John included, have wished for life to go back to the way it was: before Moriarty's trial, before that kidnapping, before Sherlock's fall. It's a goal that we thought was never going to be reachable, but now there seems to be a glimmer of hope. If Sherlock can convince the world that he is and always has been who he says he is, then life can get back to the way it was. Maybe then Sherlock can recover more quickly as well. Maybe his work is the final push he needs to get better.

"…Sherlock," John finally breathes out, looking down at the floor, "I…I…Bloody hell, I don't know what to say."

"It's a yes or no question, John?" Sherlock replies with an arrogant smirk, "Will you or won't you work with me again?"

"I'll…I'll have to talk with Mary." John says, running a hand through his hair, "I can't just run off into the blue you know?"

"If you haven't noticed, John, nor can I." Sherlock says, nudging his head in my direction.

I let out a small chuckle and dry my eyes on my red sweater sleeve: "Shall I leave and let you guys talk?" I ask.

"No, Fee, you don't have to go." John replies, "We have nothing to discuss." Sherlock and I give John a discouraged look, but then relax when we see the former army doctor's half mouth smile: "You're right, I have missed it." He goes on, looking at Sherlock, "That was my life for so long and I was actually happy with chasing after criminals and all of that. I never told you that you saved my life, Sherlock. That's what I meant when I said that I owed you so much. We were partners, yeah, and I would be more than happy to start that again. But you've got to promise me something, Sherlock; something real important."

"Yes?" Sherlock asks sounding prepared to agree to anything just to get John back.

"That woman over there," John explains, nudging his head toward me, "you're wife; she suffered more than me, more than anyone else, during your absence. I kept my promise and I watched out for her and your little boy. Now that you're back, well, let's just say having you back in her life has made her smile like I haven't seen in years. You break her heart again, Sherlock, and I will make sure you won't come back. You got that? She needs you and so does your son. You can't leave them."

Sherlock nods and looks back at me: "I know." He says, holding a hand out to me, "and I don't intend to." I dry my eyes again and go to Sherlock's side, taking his outstretched hand into my own. He pulls me in for another embrace and kisses the top of my head. "I promise you Elfie Marie and you John that I'm not leaving. Not until I am old and can no longer perform what is necessary for my line of work. Three years apart was enough; I'm ready to come back for good."

_**Hello lovelies!**_

_**Goodness, its felt like ages since I last posted and I am sorry for that (school, work, all that jazz). How are you all? Good? Happy? Over the moon by that six seconds BBC released of Season 3? I wasn't going to add that line Sherlock said, because I figured everyone would be putting that into his or her stores now, but I couldn't resist. Hope it wasn't too cheesy for you all.**_

_**So things will be coming to a close soon and much like with "Woman at His Side" I will be hinting to the next story in an epilogue. I have a chapter or two left before that though. Hopefully, I will get those up soon. I have a scene with Donovan that I'm especially proud of :)**_

_**Thanks as always for the support. It really keeps me going. Xoxo**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_


	19. Chapter 19: I Knew Him

_Chapter 19: I Knew Him_

"They're here."

"Hmm?"

"Lestrade and Sgt. Donovan just parked across the street."

"Mhm, good."

"Where are those files? Maybe if we can just hand them over to Lestrade then Donovan…Sherlock, love, can you hear me?"

"Mmm."

"Sherlock?"

"…'M cold."

Grabbing the blanket off the back of Sherlock's armchair, I quickly go from my spot at the window to Sherlock's side. After John left and we put Hamish down for his afternoon nap, Sherlock began to complain about feeling dizzy and weak. I guided him to the couch to just lay down for a bit and that's when the nausea started. His face went pale and he let out a deep groan. I was there with the bin and a glass of water just in time. Unfortunately, this is all part of his recovery routine so I immediately snapped into caring mode; giving him plenty of water, making him comfortable, things like that. Even on his good days, Sherlock will slip into these flu-like slumps and that I can handle. On his bad days, however, the flu comes along with the depression and that is when my job as doting wife becomes difficult.

"Sherlock," I whisper, draping the blanket over his slightly shaking body, "Love, are you awake?" Sherlock groans slightly and pulls the blanket up to his cheeks. Very slowly, he blinks his eyes open and locks his gaze with mine. I give him a small smile and kiss his forehead: "Hey, handsome."

"Don't lie to me," Sherlock grumbles, "I look terrible." There is a moment of panic in my mind (maybe this good day will turn into a bad day) but it is quickly extinguished by that half mouth smirk that my husband gives me. That smile always seems to warm my heart, as cliché as that sounds.

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself." I tease, running a hand through his messy curls, "You don't look that bad."

Sherlock chuckles slightly and takes my hand into his: "What would I do without you?" he mumbles, massaging my knuckles.

"I don't know, but you seemed to have survived the past three years." I reply.

"Obviously I didn't do that well." He points out, "Or else we would be in this predicament right now." I frown slightly and Sherlock gently strokes my cheek: "I'm sorry, darling. That was a bit…not good."

"It's alright," I reply, nuzzling my head onto his hand, "I know what you meant." I gently kiss the heel of his palm and smile.

He smiles back then lazily removes his hand from my cheek to point at the desk: "The files are on my desk." He groans, before letting his arm fall down to his side with a thud, "Hand them to Lestrade when he gets up here."

"Alright, anything else?" I ask,

"Just…stay beside me." He replies, dozing off again, "Will you do that for me?" I merely smile and take a seat beside Sherlock, allowing him to use my lap as a pillow. Very gently, I begin to massage his temples; something that he used to enjoy before he left. "How is it you always know how to make me feel better?" my husband contently says with a sigh.

"I don't know. Instinct?" I reply, "I guess it comes with being so in love with you. Is this helping?"

"Immensely," he says, "But I do wish this stupid stomach churning would go away."

"Yeah, John said that would be normal." I say, "I can move you to the bedroom, make you more comfortable."

"No, Hamish is still sleeping in there." He mumbles in reply, "It would be stupid to move him. Besides, Lestrade will be up in a few minutes; I want to make sure he receives these files."

"What you need to do is get back to bed." I instruct, "I'll make sure Greg gets these. Now, just go back to sleep. You're exhausted which is expected; you had quite the morning."

"Hmm, yes I did, my darling." He coos, turning on his side and placing a soft kiss on my knee, "but I don't regret it." My cheeks turn a bright pink as my husband wraps his arms around my legs; "Maybe we can even do it again sometime."

"I was talking about your manifesto with John, you silly bastard." I say playfully hitting his shoulder, "Not sex."

Sherlock merely shrugs and looks up at me with half-opened eyes: "Come here," He whispers, gently pulling me down so that I can lie underneath him. We gently cuddle up close to one another and share a soft kiss on the lips.

"I love you," he whispers, nuzzling his head under my chin.

"I love you too." I reply, holding him in return.

Just then, we hear the sound of footsteps trudging up the stairs. It sounds like it's only one pair; maybe Lestrade left Donovan in the car like he said he would. Sure enough, the Detective Inspector appears in the archway of our living room. I expect Sherlock to move but he doesn't; must be too tired to care if anyone sees us like this.

"Hello," Lestrade says, giving us a polite nod, "Mrs. Holmes, how are you?"

"Fine, thank you." I reply, bashfully blushing a bright pink, "and where is Sgt. Donovan? I was under the impression she was coming with you."

"She's in the car, just like I told your husband she would be," he says, "And how are you feeling Sherlock? Last time I was here, you couldn't get out of bed."

"Look at me and make a deduction," Sherlock practically hisses as he moves to lie next to me rather then on top of me, "Your files are on my desk. Grab them and go on your way; I'm not in the mood for chatting."

"Well, glad to see you've got your sense of manners back," Lestrade sarcastically replies, walking over to the desk and taking the appropriate folders, "Can't stay long anyway. We're on our way to a crime scene: double homicide, elderly husband and wife, both shot through the chest, found at 11'o clock this morning by the housekeeper."

"Goodness," I breathe out, "Greg, that's awful."

"Housekeeper did it." Sherlock states rather nonchalantly.

"I haven't given you any of the details." Lestrade says sounding rather interested.

"You gave me enough," Sherlock says, steepling his hands under his chin, "Elderly couple implies that they couldn't have gone out much so they couldn't have developed too many enemies. Only person who could have known they would both be home at the specific time of death would be the housekeeper. You go ahead and investigate, but I bet you 20 quid it was the housekeeper."

"I thought you said you weren't ready to go back on cases just yet." Lestrade says with a chuckle, "Not until your all healthy and what not."

"As you can see, I'm not healthy thus I am not on the case. Now, go away please. I have a headache." Sherlock grumbles as he closes his eyes. Greg and I exchange a quick look and just smile. Sherlock's getting back to himself: his same old deducing, rude and blunt self.

"Well, before I go and let you two go back to…whatever it was you were doing," Lestrade says with a smirk, "Sherlock, do you want to discuss how this press conference thing is going to work?"

"I told you, I'm not in the mood for talking," Sherlock groans, "All of the information you need is in those files. Now, Good Afternoon."

"Alright, fine." Lestrade replies, heading for the door, "I'll read these over then give you a call. You still want to do this Friday?"

"So soon?" I quip in, "I'm mean, it's only Tuesday, but-Don't you guys think that there should be a bit more time to plan this out?"

"No. Friday will do." Sherlock breathes out, pulling the blanket over his head, "I've had three years to plan this out. Now, goodbye Inspector."

"Okay, fine." Lestrade says, "See you at the press conference, Elfie."

I watch the detective inspector go with a furrowed brow. What does he mean see you at the press conference? I'm not going…am I? Don't get me wrong, of course I'm proud of Sherlock for making this huge public announcement but I really don't see the point in me being there. Yes I'm his wife, but before he left the papers never knew that. To them, I was 'the girl Mr. Holmes is commonly seen with'. To them, I'm nobody important.

"Sherlock," I say, but my husband is already gently snoring. Given his current health, I should be happy that he's resting but I want some answers first: "Sherlock," I try again, nudging his arm, "wake up."

"I thought you wanted me to sleep." He groans from under the blanket.

"Why did Lestrade say that he was going to see me at the press conference?"

"Because you'll be there." He says, finally lowering the blanket so that we can speak eye to eye, "I thought that was implied when I told you of my plan. My wife would have to be there at my public resurrection."

"But…but I don't…want too." I bite my lower lip and look away from him. It childish of me to say that I don't want to go to this press conference, but it is the truth. I have Hamish to take care of and I have a feeling the press will be in a huge uproar over Sherlock. If they find out that he has a son, God only knows what will happen next.

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock lurches his body up in a sitting position and I do the same: "Look, Elfie," he begins, "I understand that this may be a bit difficult for you. I put you through Hell; leaving you alone when you were 2 months pregnant and then having you raise Hamish all by yourself. I can imagine that you would not wish to relive the details of that time and…nor do I." Sherlock pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts, then goes on: "The truth is, I need you there. My confidence has been shaken these past few years, I'm sure that's no mystery to you. You have seen me at my lowest and…and yet your still here: at my side, caring for me, loving me."

"Of course," I reply, taking his hands into my own, "how many times do I have to tell you that I'm not leaving you?"

Sherlock chuckles slightly and looks into my eyes: "I want you there because you are my strength." He says in a soft tone, "It is selfish of me to ask, I know, but I love you, Elfie Marie Holmes. If I'm going to take this leap, then…then I want the one person I trust with everything I hold dear to be with me."

I bite my lower lip and take in a deep breath: "But…but what about Hamish?" I ask, "If the press finds out that I'm your wife then they're going to find out about him and…"

"They won't." Sherlock states, sounding very stern now, "I will make sure that no one, not one single reporter, comes near our son. This is my own personal affair and I will see to it that neither you nor our son will be affected by it. The two of you are my life and I will not have either of you put in harms way."

A small smile grows across my face as I lean in to give my husband a soft kiss on the lips: "Funny," I whisper, "there was a time when I thought you only considered your work to be your world."

"That was before I had you." He whispers in reply. We kiss and return to our previous position of cuddling. Yes, I still have my doubts about going to this press conference but I'm more at ease hearing that Sherlock will protect Hamish and I. Of course he will; he's Sherlock. I don't doubt him for a second, nor could I ever. He is my world and I will forever be his.

"I should go get Hamish," I whisper, slowly getting up, "He'll be waking up now."

"Bring him out here, would you?" Sherlock asks, drifting back into sleep, "He'll…he'll be upset if he can't be with me."

"Okay," I reply with a chuckle. I lean over my husband and tuck the blanket around him: "I love you, my brilliant genius."

"I love you too, my darling, darling girl."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Friday came sooner than I had hoped. John and Mary came by the flat around noon to wait with Sherlock and I for Lestrade to pick us up. The plan was simple: Mary would stay here with Hamish while John, Sherlock and I would go down to Scotland Yard. There, Lestrade will escort John and I to the pressroom while Sherlock is to hide else where until the correct moment in which he will reveal himself.

"Nervous?" I ask Sherlock as I adjust his blue scarf around his neck.

"Surprisingly, no." he replies, "Are you?" I look into his eyes and he immediately understands my concern. I'm scared for him and for how this whole thing is going to play out. What if the press turns on him again? What if his plan doesn't work?  
"Don't worry about me, alright," he says, cupping my face in his hands, "Promise?"

"Promise." I reply, but then a small smile grows across my face: "Did you know you said those exact words to me three years ago? Back when that god awful trail was going on?"

Sherlock chuckles slightly and presses his lips against the top of my forehead: "I love you." He whispers into my hair.

"I love you too." I reply.  
"He's here," John says from his spot at the windows, "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be." Sherlock replies, giving his best friend an assertive nod. Memories flood my mind of the day Sherlock was called to testify against Moriarty. It's eerie that this, right now, echoes that day almost perfectly.

"Good luck," Mary says, giving John a quick kiss on the cheek, "We'll be here when you get back."

"Thanks, love." He replies, kissing her back.

"Dad! Mum!" Hamish whines, pulling on the ends of Sherlock's coat, "I go too!"

"Not this time, little one." I say, scoping the boy up into my arms, "You're going to spend the afternoon with Mary, okay?"

"No. Dull." Hamish pouts, crossing his arms across his chest, "I go too."

"Hamish, listen to your mother." Sherlock says, facing the upset toddler, "I have to fix things and I'm going to need Mum and John's help. We'll be home before you know it, young man."

"…Oh-tay," Hamish reluctantly replies.

"Good man." Sherlock says. He then places a soft kiss on Hamish's forehead: "I love you."

"Love you, Dad." Hamish replies, "Love you, Mum."

"I love you too, sweetheart." I say, kissing his cheek. I then turn my attention to Mary: "Thank you for watching him."

"My pleasure," she says, gently taking the boy from me, "I'll do my best to keep him occupied while your out." Sherlock gives her a small nod then turns to exit out of the flat. John gives his fiancé one final peck on the cheek then turns to me. I give him a small nod then we both follow Sherlock down the stairs. We exit the building one at a time and quickly get into the back of Lestrade's car just in case someone might see us. Once we are all settled, we are on our way.

I feel like there is a 20lbs. weight sitting on my chest.

What is going to happen?

God, why am I so nervous?

Before I know it we reach our destination. John and I exit out of the car with Lestrade, but Sherlock stays behind. "Go on ahead," he instructs, "I'll meet you inside."  
"Where will you go?" I ask

"Didn't I tell you not to worry about me?" He replies with a smirk and a click of his tongue, "I'll see you in a bit, love." Realizing that there is no way I'm going to get another word out of him, I nod and turn to walk with John and Lestrade.

"Come on, Fee," John says, putting a comforting arm around my shoulders, "Let's just get this over with."

"John, what if this doesn't go the way he wants it too?" I ask, "What if…what if the press will just turn on him again?"

"To be quite honest with you, Elfie," Lestrade says, "I think they are going to be in too much a state of shock to either turn on or accept him. You have to realize he's still dead to the rest of the world. This is going to shake things up, that's for certain."

"Yes, I know." I reply, looking down at my feet.

We arrive at the door of the press conference room and I can feel my heart beat quicken. Through one of the windows, we can see that the room is packed with reporters with cameras, voice recorders, notepads or all three. The weight on my chest seems to have added an additional 5 pounds as I gulp down my nerves. What is going to happen? Hell, I don't even know what Lestrade is going to say; this needs to just be over and done with.

"Alright, here's the plan," Lestrade instructs, facing John and I, "You two will be up at the front with myself and Donovan, but off to the side. I don't expect either of you to say anything, but be ready for some reporters to ask you some questions."

"What sort of questions?" John asks, folding his arms across his chest.

"Just the ones you'd expect: 'Did you know about any of this?' 'Did Mr. Holmes' include you in his plans?' That sort of thing." Lestrade replies, then turns to me "I'll make sure they don't ask anything too personal, Elfie. Sherlock made it very clear to me that he wants to keep your family private."

"Thank you," I reply with a nod.

Just as Lestrade is about to guide John and I inside, Sergeant Sally Donovan pops her head out of the door: "Sir, they're ready for you when-Oh, hello." She says with a sly smirk to John and I.

John gives her a polite nod, but I don't reply. I simply look away and focus on fiddling with my wedding ring. God, I hate her.

"Alright, thanks Donovan." Lestrade says, "We'll be right in."

"Wait…they're join the conference?" she asks, sounding rather annoyed, "Why?"

"Seeing that the topic of this press conference is the validity of who Sherlock Holmes was, a man whom they both were extremely close to, John and Elfie have every right to be here." Lestrade says in his Detective Inspector tone.

"If you say so, sir." Donovan replies, with a roll of her eyes, which gives me some joy, seeing her annoyed that is.

"Problem?" Greg snaps, "If you have something to say, Donovan, get it out now."

Donovan looks at John and I then back at Lestrade. She takes in a deep breath and goes on: "Sir it's just…none of this makes sense to me," she says, stepping out of the doorway so that the reporters might not over hear her, "I mean, you haven't exactly been clear: Where did this new evidence come from? Why are we even saying that the papers were wrong? That was three years ago."

"Sometimes things from the past need to be set right." Lestrade states. "We know now that Moriarty…"

"That's the thing though, sir," Donovan quickly quips in, "Moriarty's long gone, we haven't heard anything from him since Sherlock's suicide. You can't be serious when you say that he was the one behind the kidnapping as well as destroying Sherlock's reputation? It's a possibility yes, but quite an outlandish one."

"Sergeant," Lestrade warns.

"No one has heard of Moriarty for 3 years," she goes on, "and besides, he never even existed."

"Alright, Donovan, that's enough." Lestrade commands.

"You investigated the man." I snap, taken back by Donovan's statement, "How can you possibly say the man wasn't real?"

"Elfie, lets not do this right now." John whispers in my ear but I ignore him. I've had these feelings pent up for far to long; I'm going to give her a piece of my mind.

"Funny you should be asking me that." She replies in a challenging tone,

"Excuse me?" I ask,

"Donovan." Lestrade tries again, but she ignores him.

"You're little sociopath of a boyfriend never denied any of it: the kidnapping, the fraud, Richard Brook, none of it." She goes on, "Sherlock Holmes just ignored it all."

"He committed suicide over it, you idiot!" I finally snap, "Do you think he jumped because he wanted to avoid confrontation? Do you really thing he was that shallow?"

"Ladies, please, can we not do this right now?" John says, stepping between us, but it doesn't do any good. This is a confrontation that has been in the works for three years.

"I had known him longer than you did," Donovan hisses, now speaking to me like I'm a suspect in a case, " and didn't I tell you and Dr. Watson here he could get out of control? He set us all up to believe that he was some kind of hero and nearly got people killed for it. Making up a criminal mastermind sounds like something he would do just to make things more interesting. It took awhile, but he got everyone to play along, even you. Freak made quite the spectacle out of it, didn't he?"

"So, you think it was all a show?" I ask, in shock, as the anger builds up inside of me, "That Moriarty was just some actor Sherlock had hired, is that it?"

"Yes," She replies, challenging me once again, "a bit theatrical in my opinion, but yes."

"Then you've just proven Sherlock right, Sgt. Donovan, because you're the prime example of what he always use to say," I hiss, getting close to Donovan's face, "You see but you do not observe."

"What are you-?" Donovan begins to say, but I quickly cut her off.

"You just believed what your eyes saw and accepted what you wanted to accept." I go on, "You ignored how odd the whole situation was because you wanted to sweep the matter under the rug and see 'the freak' fall. True, you knew Sherlock before me but I _knew_ him. He was a genius and never ceased to amaze the world with his gift." My voice begins to shake, but I continue to hold firm and glare at Donovan:

"Sherlock was right; Moriarty made up Richard Brook and planted the idea into people's heads. Sherlock gave up his life to protect his reputation, not to back out. He wasn't that kind of a man; he was a hero, my hero. That's…that's why I married him. I love Sherlock with all of my heart and if you go into that press conference and counter point any of this new evidence that proves Sherlock's innocence, then I swear to God I will end you right then and there, do you understand?"

The room is quiet but the air is tense. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes and my body trembling like an emotional volcano, ready to erupt. I've been holding these feelings inside for so long that I can't seem to control them any more. How could Donovan think that he had just given up? She's an idiot, they all are, those people who never understood Sherlock and what he was doing. They didn't understand him thus I can't wait to see the looks on their faces when he reveals himself.

Unable to hide my watery eyes, I turn my back to Donovan and hide my face in John's jumper. My best friend happily holds me close and comforts me. Donovan is about to speak, but thankfully Lestrade steps in: "I think you've done enough," he says to her, "Why don't you head to your desk and finish up the paperwork for that double homicide?"

"Sir, I…" she's about to argue, but Greg puts up a strong hand to silence her.

"That's an order, Sergeant." He commands. I lift my head just enough to watch her walk away, grumbling to herself probably about how this is somehow unfair to her. She really doesn't get it does she? I guess some people really as heartless as they appear to be.

"Elfie, I'm…I'm so sorry." Lestrade says, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, "Had I known she was going to go off like that, I would have never had asked her to speak up."  
"No, no, it's fine." I reply, drying my eyes, "I…I needed to get that off my chest. I just didn't know I had all that pent up emotion."

"Maybe you shouldn't go in," john says, gently rubbing my shoulders, "if this is going to bring back too difficult memories for you, Fee, then…"

"No, John, I can do this." I say, "Sherlock wants me here for him and that's what I'm going to do." He gives me a concerned gaze but I put on a small smile: "You of all people know how strong I am, John, I can handle this." He nods and we exchange a quick embrace. When wee part, with a nod and a heavy sigh, Lestrade opens the door.

The reporters immediately turn around in their chairs and they start to mumble to each other. A few cameras flash as the three of us make our to the front of the room; reminds of the old days when Sherlock was just beginning to be famous. All those camera flashes and voices calling out his name:

"_Mr. Holmes! A quote for the paper!"_

"_Sherlock Holmes, care to answer a few questions?"_

"_Put the hat on, Holmes! Front page material!"_

It was madness so it is safe to say I haven't missed it.

Finally reaching the front, Lestrade takes his appropriate seat at a large table that's been set up with various microphones on it. John and I move to stand off to the side so that we don't draw focus even though I overheard a few reporters whisper our names when we walked in. My cell phone buzzes in my pocket and I quickly pull it out to check the text I have just received as well as put my phone on silent:  
_'I love you-SH'_

A smile grows across my face:

'_I love you too-EH'_

I put my phone away and finally Lestrade begins to speak:

"Three years ago this coming May, a case was brought to Scotland Yard's attention. It was the kidnapping of Ambassador to the US, Max Bruhl's two young children. At the time, the Yard-more specifically my team- was seeking the aide of a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Holmes had gained recognition in the press due to his mass success as what he called a 'consulting detective'. His massive intellect and acute attention to details help my team piece together some of the more challenging cases we came across and, fortunately, he was never wrong.

However, during this kidnapping case, it became clear to certain members of the team that Mr. Holmes' was not the man who he claimed to be. With news that criminal mastermind James Moriarty was actually an actor hired by Mr. Holmes named Richard Brook as well as the evidence discovered during the kidnapping, Scotland Yard arrested Mr. Holmes on suspicion of kidnapping as well as for the other crimes he may have been involved in. Mr. Holmes escaped and fled to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where the next morning he stepped off of the roof and took his own life."

I close my eyes and bite my lip; it's still unnerving to hear those words. True, Sherlock is alive, but I don't think I will ever get over hearing that he 'took his own life'. Seeing my distress, John sets a comforting hand on my shoulder. We exchange a quick look of distress and then continue to listen to Lestrade:

"Due to the suspicious and unexpected actions of Mr. Holmes, a private investigation was commissioned into the matters of his suicide as well as the validity of Mr. Brook's accusations. It has taken us three years, but now we have conclusive evidence to show that these accusations were false and in the case of Ambassador Bruhl's children, Mr. Holmes was innocent. This whole matter was in fact a set-up performed by James Moriarty, whom made his distaste in Mr. Holmes' very public during his trail for robbery.

Scotland Yard recognizes the mistakes they made during the previous investigation of Mr. Holmes and it my responsibility to extend our deepest condolences and apologizes to Mr. Holmes' family. Standing to my left are former collogues of Mr. Holmes, Dr. John Watson and Ms. Elfie Stegerson, who were with Mr. Holmes during this difficult time. They are here today to answer any questions you all may have as well as to support Mr. Holmes' memory."

Lestrade then turns to John and I and motions for us to take a seat at the table. John, being the brave solider that he is, takes a seat. Gulping down my fears, I do so as well. There is a mumbling and a few sharp intakes of air from the reporters. Some jot down a few notes on their notepads while others are shaking their heads in disbelief and disapproval. My eyes are glued to the door, hoping that Sherlock will walk through at any minute. A hand quickly shoots up in the front row:

"Dr. Watson, you assisted Mr. Holmes on many of his notorious ventures, including the kidnapping," this reporter says, "couldn't you have spoken up about Mr. Holmes' innocence then?"

"Uh, well, my-my word wouldn't have been valid." John replies, adjusting his tie a bit, "Sherlock is…was my best mate so of course I was going to say he was innocent."

"Is it true you were present at Mr. Holmes' death?" another reporter asks. .

"I, yes, I was." He stammers, clearing his throat, "And that's all I'm going to say on that matter." I turn my head to see the color slightly fade from John's cheeks; it's still hard for him to think about too.

"Ms. Stegerson, at the time it was rumored that you had romantic entanglements with Mr. Holmes," another reporter asks, "Do you blame the Yard for the death of your boyfriend?"

A bit taken back by this reporter's blunt question, I clear my throat and answer: "At the time…I didn't know what to think. It was all very odd to me and I couldn't…I still can't wrap my head around it."

"Is that a yes?"  
"I don't blame anyone," I clarify, "it…it's hard to explain." I look over a John and he gives me an affirmative nod.

"Detective Inspector, where did this new evidence come from and why wait until now to release it?" the first reporter asks

"Well, we had to make sure this evidence was conclusive," Lestrade replies rather professionally, "A reliable source has been assisting us in that matter."

"An informant?" another reporter asks

"Not exactly no," Lestrade goes on, and as if on cue the door opens rather slowly. Relieved that this doesn't have to go a minute longer, I lean back in my chair and smile as that wonderful, booming, baritone voice fills the room:

"Ladies and gentlemen if I could have your attention please."

The reporters and camera workers turn their attention to the door and almost instantly, cameras began to flash and the quiet mumbling of the reporters become a loud, busy mixture of gasps and a few curse words. Sherlock merely strode up to the front of the room and took Lestrade's place in the center. He looks amazing, standing so tall and proud, decked out in his signature black suit, coat and blue scarf. My heart flutters slightly and I can't help but stare at him in awe. Sherlock sees me out of the corner of his eyes and gives me a small wink. He then calmly turns back to the press:

"My name is Sherlock Holmes…and based on all of your current reactions, I can only assume that you have some questions for me."

_**Hello lovelies,**_

_**I had hoped to put this up earlier but I unfortunately experienced a very sad family matter this week. That is partially way this chapter may seem a bit choppy. Still, I hope you all enjoyed it. **_

_**For those who may ask, in the original books, the Reichenbach fall takes place on May 4 but I know that in the BBC series that is not really the case. I put in that line just to add flair from the books. Is that the right term? 'Add flair'? Hm, oh well.**_

_**Thanks as always for reading, reviewing, and adding to favorites and all that good stuff. It truly brightens my day when I see your lovely responses. Xoxo**_

_**Things will be wrapping up, but I'm not done with Elfie and Sherlock :) I enjoy writing (hopefully posting the first chapter of my Star Trek story tomorrow) and I'm glad to see that there are people out there who enjoy reading it. So as always, thank you!**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	20. Chapter 20: The Genius and His Son

_Chapter 20: The Genius and His Son_

'_Breaking News: Internet detective back from the dead and innocent.'_

'_Sherlock Holmes: Alive and Telling the Truth.'_

'_His Last Big Scheme: How Sherlock Holmes managed to fool the world.'_

'_Back on the Case: Sherlock Holmes is alive and as clever as ever.'_

The news was everywhere. Every magazine, every paper and every new station all read the same headline: Sherlock Holmes, formerly of Internet crime solving fame, is back from the dead. Due to the success of at the press conference, the entire world now knew of Moriarty's plan to debunk Sherlock's reputation and how he had seemingly succeeded in it. To be honest, I was quite shocked on how immediate the press took to this information. I expected a lot of hate and 'this is just another scheme. He's lying' but surprisingly there wasn't. Instead, they were just fascinated:  
_ "Mr. Holmes, how on Earth did you pull this off?"  
"Did you know what Moriarty was planning?"_

_ "Where have you been these past three years?"_

_ "Can you tell us where your career goes from here?"_

My personal favorite response was from Sgt. Donovan. We bumped into her on our way out of Scotland Yard and her look was simply priceless. She was carrying a bunch of papers, but immediately dropped them when her eyes met Sherlock's. Her eyes widened and all color drained from her face:

"You…you…here." She stuttered and Sherlock just smirked at her.

"Care for help with those?" he asked, "No? Ah well, in that case then, see you soon Sally. Afternoon." Then with a click of his tongue, Sherlock strode past her with his coat whisking behind him. I couldn't hide my smile as I followed him; I know it's catty of me to say, but man am I glad to see her utterly embarrassed.

It has begun to feel like the old days again what with the press delving into (or at least attempting to) Sherlock's personal life. He's even more of a mystery to them then before: if anything, they've become way more interested in him then they ever were. He's gone from 'the detective in the deer stalker' to 'the man who fooled the world'. Sherlock is the story of the century, which makes me both proud and worried. I'm just afraid that they'll turn on him again.

When we left the press conference, Sherlock, John and I exited out a different way, unfortunately leaving Lestrade to deal with the hyped up reporters. Once we were clear of the building and safely in a cab in route to Baker Street, I expressed my feelings to my husband: "So what…what happens now?"

"We go home to our son, relax for tonight and then go from there." Sherlock replied rather matter of factly, "Why? Does that not seem suitable to you?"

"No, well, I mean-I don't know," I said, "I guess I'm just worried that things could go down hill again."

"Darling, that's not going to happen," he said, kissing the top of my head, "I promise you that."

"But how can you promise something like that?" John asked from the front seat.

I watched as Sherlock just turned his head to gaze out the window and sighed heavily: "Because this time I won't let my guard down." He replied, "This time, there won't be a Jim Moriarty to mess everything up. This time…I won't fail."

The first few days after the press conference have been quiet around the flat. Sherlock's still on the mend, but his health seems to regaining now that he doesn't have to worry about fixing his reputation. He now spends hours either on his computer, exchanging emails with Lestrade, or doing miscellaneous experiments just like he use to. He hasn't returned to actually going out to crime scenes and such just yet; he claims that he's not well enough, but in my heart I believe that he's nervous.

Technically, Sherlock's been out of the game for three years. Just like any other person who hasn't been at something for a long time, he's afraid that he might not be as good as he was. I know that's not true and so does everyone else. It's no secret, though, that Sherlock's self-confidence has been compromised over the years. He just needs the extra push to get him back out there. After that, I'm sure he'll be shooting off witty insults and solving crimes in a matter of no time.

On this January evening, I trudge up the stairs to the living room, simply exhausted after working all day. I've gone back to working 9 to 5, Monday through Friday at the museum, but I'm seriously considering about changing that. Call it being sappy and overbearing, but I just can't stand being away from my family for that long. Tonight was my first late shift where I had work past 5 and I couldn't stand it. Maybe I am turning into an overbearing mother.

As I reach the archway, I immediately notice how eerily quite and calm the flat is. I left Sherlock and Hamish alone together today so there should be some sort of disarray, but surprisingly everything seems in place. Did they go out and Sherlock just forgot to tell me? Sherlock had mentioned taking Hamish to the lab.

"Sherlock?" I call out, slowly setting my bag down by the coat rack.

"In here, darling," Sherlock replies from the kitchen. With a sigh of relief, I remove my coat and head toward the sound of my husband's voice. My heart immediately fills with joy as I spot Sherlock, dressed in his black trousers and purple shirt, balancing an extremely happy Hamish in his lap while he gazes into Sherlock's microscope. During the first months of my pregnancy, I dreamed of a sight like this and now that it's a reality…I guess, it's just hard to believe.

"Now, Hamish," Sherlock instructs as he fixes his steady hold on the eager toddler, "Look very carefully. Tell me what you see."

"Nut-ting Daddy." Hamish replies sounding rather frustrated.

"Try this," Sherlock coaches as he gently adjusts the knobs on the side of the microscope: "Now, just like before. Look. Really look." As I watch my boys at work, I can't help but remember the time when Sherlock first showed me how to study evidence under a microscope:

_"I…I don't see anything different. Its just dirt."_

_"Try this. Now, look. Really look. Don't think about the obvious. Just look."_

_"Hold it. That's it! I can see it!_

"I see! I see!" Hamish squeals. Out of the corner of his eye, he then notices me in the doorway, "Mummy! Mummy, look!" He quickly scrambles out of Sherlock's hold and wobbles his way toward me, "I helping Dad!"

"I see that, Hamish," I say, kneeling down to his love to meet him in a tight embrace. My son wraps his pudgy arms around my neck and places a huge kiss on my cheek.

"Oh I've missed you, sweetheart," I coo, scooping the boy up into my arms and standing upright, "What have you and Daddy been up to all day?"  
"X-tier-a-mints." Hamish slowly sounds out, furrowing his brow in concentration.

"Experiments, is that so?" I say, walking over to Sherlock's side, "I hope it was nothing too exciting for you Hamish."

"It was perfectly safe, Fee," Sherlock mumbles as he takes his turn to look into the microscope, "do you really think I'd let him help with something that wasn't? Honestly, I'm not that reckless."

"I know. I trust you." I chuckle, placing Hamish on my hip, "But dare I ask what the experiment was?"  
"I show you, Mummy." Hamish says with a giggle, "Look!" He digs through the pocket of his light blue pajama trousers and pulls out a small, clear bouncy ball.

"You…made a toy ball?" I ask, giving Sherlock an 'I'm very impressed' look

"A mixture of borax, glue, water and corn starch." Sherlock states, still not looking up from his microscope, "It's not that difficult really; I mixed the solutions but Hamish stirred the concoction. But we do have one major rule with it, don't we Hamish."

"Mhm," Hamish says with a nod, "Don't throw inside."

"Good man," Sherlock replies with a smirk, "Can't risk breaking anything, now can we?"

"Well, that's…that's quite an amazing experiment." I say, turning my attention back to Hamish, "Well done, little one." Hamish giggles then places another big kiss on my cheek. I kiss him back and then set him down so that he can run off to the living room to play with his homemade toy. I then set my hands on Sherlock's shoulders and place a kiss on the top of his head: "What's under the microscope?"

"Tissue from a human liver," Sherlock states rather nonchalantly, "Lestrade wanted me to take a look at it. Apparently, the former owner of this liver died of alcohol poisoning, but Lestrade's not convinced. Hamish and I went by the lab to pick it up shortly after he called me. He was very well behaved and quite fascinated by all the science equipment."

"Sherlock, if that's just a piece of the tissue, then where is the liver?"

"In the fridge, second shelf, red container to the right."

"Sherlock!"

"Where else was I to put it? Molly said that it wouldn't keep for long-Oh, she says hello by the way."

"Oh, well, hello then." I reply sheepishly. Molly and I sort of fell out of contact after Sherlock's 'death', but I now understand why. She was the only one who knew he was still alive and the responsibility to keep that a secret couldn't have been easy for her. Maybe now that things have cleared up, we can try being friends again.

Pushing the thought away for now, I gently wrap my arms around Sherlock's shoulders and gently rest my head on his shoulder. He lets out that lovely baritone chuckle of his and I can see a small smile grow across his lips.

"Why is it you always manage to distract me from my work?" he teases in a soft tone.

"Sorry to be such a bother," I reply, kissing his neck. Sherlock looks up from his sample and turns around so that we are eye to eye.

"Come here," he whispers and before I know it, Sherlock has pulled me onto his lap and is kissing me on the lips. Happily, I kiss him back. Today must be a good day then; those seem to be more common then the bad ones.

"I missed you today," he says as our lips part, "I…I wasn't feeling that well this afternoon while Hamish was sleeping and, well, I needed you."

"What was it?" I ask, taking note of the distress in his voice. Guess it really wasn't that good of a day.

"To be honest with you, love, I can't really explain it." He says with a heavy sigh, "I just felt so…alone. Of course I wasn't; that's a stupid way to put it. But I couldn't think properly and everything seemed to be reminding me of where I've been and…and what I did. I tried to sleep it off, but that only made it worse. I felt dizzy and my whole body ached and I soon as I closed my eyes, the memories started flooding in which only lead to-"

"The nightmares." I finish for him and Sherlock gives me a small nod.

"I can't live like this forever, Fee." He goes on, "This constant game of 'will I be okay today or not' is too much and, quite frankly, it's inconvenient to me."

"I know, Sherlock, honestly I do. You're going to get better, I promise you that." I reply, smiling at his latter comment, "and you now you could've called me at work if you were feeling that bad. I'll always drop whatever I'm doing to come home."

"Yes, but you shouldn't have too," he says with a hint of sadness, "I'm a grown man, I should be able to care for myself as well as my son." His gaze then shifts to Hamish who is contently flipping through one of his picture books in the living room, "Do you know what our son told me today?"

"What?" I ask.

"He said that he wanted to be just like me when he grew up," Sherlock replies, looking back at me, "He called me his hero. I've never been someone's hero before, Fee, I…I don't quite know how to take it."

"Hey," I whisper, cupping his face in my hands, "You've always been my hero, Sherlock Holmes, and you've never done anything to make me think otherwise."

Sherlock gives me a small smirk and pulls me in even closer to his body; "You've always been a mystery to me, Elfie Marie." He says, "I've never been able to figure it out."

"Figure what out?"

"Why you continue to stay with me."

"It's because I love you, you idiot." I chuckle, playfully hitting my husband's shoulder, "That shouldn't be a mystery to you. It's rather-how would you say it-obvious?"  
Sherlock chuckles and we kiss again, but this time much deeper then before. Deciding that we probably shouldn't start making out while out son is in the next room; I get up from Sherlock's lap and start to pick up some the miscellaneous dishes around the kitchen. When left alone all day, my boys will boys, so a few dirty dishes doesn't surprise me. Plus, I gave Sherlock dinner responsibilities; based on the amount of dishes and the state of them, I don't even want to know how that went.

"Mummy, look!" Hamish shouts from the living room, "Dad on TV!" Both Sherlock and I exit the kitchen and go to see what Hamish is watching. It doesn't surprise me that by the age of 2 he's learned how to use the remote; he is a Holmes after all. Sure enough, it is some random news program doing a report on how the great Sherlock Holmes faked his death and fooled the world. That's all that seems to be on television these days.

"Mummy," Hamish giggles, "You see? Dat Daddy!" Before I can even say anything, Sherlock snatches up the remote from Hamish's hands and turns the television off. Almost immediately, the toddler's bottom lip is out and that look of sadness fills his eyes.

"Daddy," Hamish begins to whine but Sherlock puts up an affirmative hand.

"Hamish, we've already had this discussion today." He explains, "You ask your mother or I if you can watch telly. You can not turn it on by yourself."

"Why?" Hamish whines, folding his arms across his chest

"Because, that's the rule." Sherlock replies, "It's not open for discussion."

I furrow my brow in confusion at Sherlock's scolding; it is a reasonable rule, yes, but I don't think there's a need to get so harsh about it. It's just television; what kind of trouble could a 2 year old...oh, wait. Now I understand.

"Hamish, why don't you go pick out a book and I'll be up to read to you in a bit," I say, wanting to get my husband alone so that we can talk, "Sound good?"

"Dull." Hamish pouts, "I want TV."

"With that kind of attitude, you won't get anything." I scold, "Now, go to your room." With a huff and a roll of his eyes, Hamish gets up and heads to his bedroom. "Honestly, it scares me how much he's like you." I say, turning to address Sherlock, "Now, do you want to talk to me about what just happened?"

"What about it?" Sherlock grumbles, plopping down into his armchair, "I was being a father; I don't want Hamish's brain to be muddled by the utter crap on television."

"Sherlock, I'm not stupid," I say, taking a seat in the armchair across from him, "You don't want Hamish to see any of the news coverage about you, I get it. But I don't think you should be so harsh about it."

Sherlock gives off a heavy sigh and taps his fingers impatiently along the edge of the armrests. A look of utter distress comes across his face as he speaks: "I…I don't want him to know about what I did."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that I don't want my son to know that I was once considered the biggest fraud in all of London." He practically spits out, "If Hamish sees any of these reports, then he'll start asking questions and I can't bring myself to tell him about the past.

That little boy thinks so highly of me that…that I couldn't bare it if he knew what the world use to think of me. There probably still are those who think that I'm no good, that I'm a…freak."

He takes in a deep breath and rests his elbows on his knees; "I never cared about what others thought of me," he goes on, running his fingers through his curls, "but if there is one fear that I always had, that I still have, it's that any form of negative press gets to those closest to me. I don't want you and Hamish to be affected by what the papers say about me. This is my own battle to fight and I can't have either of you harmed by it." Sherlock gazes down at the floor for a moment and rests his hands under his chin: "You know I've never second guess myself, Elfie." He says in a low voice, "But to tell you the truth, love…I think I've made a terrible mistake by coming back."

Those words hit me like a knife to the heart. He can't mean that. No, absolutely not. He doesn't mean it. "Sherlock, don't say that. Don't ever say that," I snap, shaking my head in disbelief, "How…how could you even think something like that?"

Picking up on the sadness in my voice, Sherlock quickly lifts his head and lock his eyes with mine: "No, no, Elfie I didn't-You misunderstand me, darling," he goes on, standing up and coming to my side, "I could never speak of you and Hamish in that way, never. I…Damn it, that came out all wrong didn't it?" He immediately kneels in front of me and cups my face in his hands. Very gently, Sherlock strokes his thumbs across my cheeks as those mesmerizing eyes gaze deeply into my own. I can see the genuine hurt in those sea foam orbs of his and my own eyes start to fill with tears.

"I'm so sorry, my darling." He apologizes, "I wasn't talking about being back with my family, please understand that."

"Sherlock, what…what did you mean then?" I sniffle, stroking my hands down his arms

"I'm talking about being back in the limelight." He explains, "I regret making such a spectacle of myself. Things were so much simpler when I could just solve my cases and be done with it, not having to dodge cameras and irritating reporters. Back before Moriarty, back before the blog-but mind you I don't hold John responsible for the public attention either. But before the fame, I was private and content. Then all of a sudden, I have a public image: The man of little words who wears a deerstalker and solves mysteries in the blink of an eye. I hated it then and now it seems to be coming back. As much as I hate it, I have accepted the fact that I have to deal with this unwanted attention, but that doesn't mean you and Hamish have to as well.

Hamish should have the chance to grow up like any other child and my greatest fear is that because of who I am he won't be able too. He'll be the child of the strange detective and that may lead to-God, I'm not making much sense now am I, Fee?"

I look into his eyes and sigh heavily: "No, I think I know what you mean." I say, "You don't like the press following you around and you're-you're afraid that Hamish may get some of this unwanted attention as well."

"Yes," Sherlock says with a nod, "He…he is so important to me, Elfie. Both of you are; I can't let my personal faults affect either of you. I don't care what the world says about me, but if the press gets to you or Hamish…I don't want to think about what I do." Sherlock then takes my hands into his and places a soft kiss on my knuckles:

"The day I told you that I loved you, I vowed to do everything in my power to please you. When you became my wife, I promised myself to never let you come to harm. And now that we are parents, I'm making another promise: Keeping our lives private is not going to be easy, but I will protect our family with my whole being. I love you both so much and won't let anything harm you. Never forget that, my darling, darling girl, never."

Without really thinking, I wrap my arms around his neck and fall out of the chair and into his arms. Sherlock holds me close and presses his lips against the top of my head as I nuzzle it onto his shoulder. I close my eyes and just relax into his embrace. We remain like this for countless minutes. My entire being is filled with love for this man and I can't help but cry a bit.

"Shh, it's alright." Sherlock coos, gently cradling me, "I've got you my darling, darling girl."

"I know you do." I reply, "You always have."

I always knew that Sherlock had a heart, despite what everyone else thought and or said. He actually has the biggest heart I've ever seen in any human being and they way he shows it is by being cold and protective. His sudden resurrection and return to the public eye will bring challenges to our family, I know that, but now I'm not worried about it. Now, I know that my wonderful, strong genius will protect our family just as he's always protected me. Sherlock Holmes is, and always will be, my guardian angel and I'll never loose faith in him. Ever.

The patter of little feet against the hardwood floor causes us to separate from each other slightly. We both turn our heads to see Hamish, sheepishly standing by the couch with his thumb in his mouth, staring at us. His mop of dark curls is all a mess causing him to look like Sherlock more than ever.

"What is it, sweetheart?" I ask, drying my eyes and sitting up fully.

"I sorry." He says, waddling over us, "I bad." He comes over to me and plops down into my lap, facing me; "I sorry Mummy."

"It's alright, Hamish," I reply, wrapping my arms around him, "Thank you."

"Mad?"

"No, honey, I'm not mad and neither is Daddy."

Hamish then turns slightly to face Sherlock: "I broke rule," he says

"Hamish, it's quite alright," Sherlock says, moving over so that he is sitting beside us, "To be honest, I should be saying sorry too. I…I just got a little upset that's all. I should not have gotten so cross with you."

"It oh-tay," Hamish says before sticking his thumb back in his mouth. Sherlock smiles and places a kiss on Hamish's forehead. He then wraps an arm around me and kisses my cheek

"I love you," he says, resting his free hand on my knee

"I love you too," I say. We exchange another kiss, but are quickly interrupted by Hamish wiggling his way between us.

"Kiss too much." he says causing both Sherlock and I to laugh.

"Alright then, come along," Sherlock says, scooping the boy up into his arms. Sherlock then situates the giggling toddler up onto his broad shoulders and holds him steady by the ankles: "Shall we head off to bed then, young man?"

"Mhm," Hamish replies with a yawn, patting Sherlock's head "Tell story?"

"Let's try something different tonight." Sherlock replies, turning back around to face me, "Darling, could you grab my violin?"

"Sure," I say with a smile. I quickly get up and grab the delicate instrument from his resting place by the window, "A private concert?" I ask following them up to Hamish's room.

"All my concerts are private." Sherlock replies with a smirk, "Now, Hamish, how would you like me to play for you tonight?"

"Music?" Hamish asks giddily.

"Yes, I'll play you some music."

"Mummy can come too?"  
"If she'd like," Sherlock turns his head to look at me and gives me a half mouth smile. My heart flutters and I can't hold back my grin.

"I'd love too." I reply

_**Hello lovelies,**_

_**So this didn't turn out the way I wanted but I felt like I needed to show Sherlock's protective father side. I'll go more into it in my next Elfie/Sherlock story (is Elflock still a thing?). **_

_**I kind of mentioned in my last post that I've been going through a lot of family things this past week so it was hard for me to find my drive to write. But I did and I hope it makes you guys happy. I have one more chapter left and I'll start posting my next story when I can. For those who may be interested, I posted my first Star Trek story, Meadowlark. Go and check it out and tell me what you think!**_

_**Thanks as always for the support and I love you all. I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_


	21. Chapter 21: I Believe in Sherlock Holmes

_Chapter 21: I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_

"No."

"Oh, come on it'll be great."

"For whom?"

"Think of it as part of putting your public image back together."

"I don't want a public image, I never have. The answer is no."

"Look, it'll only be for a few minutes. It'll be over before you know it."

"John, how many ways do I have to say it? No means no; honestly, it's like talking to my two year old."

Mary and I are seated on the couch with Hamish between us watching and giggling as our men bicker with each other like an old married couple. About a week ago, Sherlock received a text from Lestrade to come to a crime scene: Homicide, 'boringly plain' according to my husband. Never the less, he went along with John who happened to be over at the time. Someone had snapped a picture of them looking over the body and the presses were once again in an uproar:

'_Sherlock Holmes and loyal companion are back in the game!'_

'_Back in Business: famous sleuth seen at crime scene.'_

'_Scotland Yard confirms receiving help from the famed detective on recent murder of business mogul.'_

As a result of the obvious excitement, Lestrade asked Sherlock if he would make an official statement to the press just so they would get the headline they needed and leave the Yard alone to do their job. Of course, Sherlock refused and voiced his thoughts on how stupid the idea was. I, on the other hand, disagreed.

"I think you should do it." I told him, "This could be your chance to ask the press to back off and let you do your work as you've always done."

"And then what, Elfie? Allow them to pester me for 10 minutes?" Sherlock had said, "That's where it will lead: I say 'leave me alone' and then they say 'why'. It's a never-ending vicious cycle. They're going to ask about my personal life, I know it and I...I can't put up with that right now."  
"Then don't answer those questions." I replied, "You always were a pro at keeping your private life private and I know you won't let anything happen to Hamish or I. I don't understand where this fear is coming from, love."

"...Let me think about it." He finally settled with as a reply, "Please? I need to mull it over for a bit."

A few days later, Sherlock agreed to make a public statement, but it was to be on his terms. A small group of reporters were to gather around our front door, Sherlock would address them with John at his side and then answer any questions they may have for exactly 5 minutes. I don't know what he plans on saying to them, but I am glad that John will be with him. If anyone can get him through this, it's John. I offered to be at his side as well, but Sherlock wouldn't here of it:

"I'm not going to let the press hound you," he said, "You are my wife and I love you; I told you that I'd protect you and that's what I'm going to do."

So that has brought us to now. The two of them have been at it for at least an hour now; Sherlock acting like a child while John is being the responsible parent. For Mary this is a new side of John. She's never had to experience the John Watson who is best friends with Sherlock Holmes. Unlike me, she's never seen the subconscious conversations, the arguments when all is forgiven with a nod and a smirk, or the indescribable emotional bond that these two share. I think she enjoys it. After all, she's a part of this now: the fourth member of this odd little team of ours.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about," she says to me as the boys start up another round of arguing, "Why won't he put it on?"  
"Because he hates it." I reply with a smile, "He always hated being the clever detective in the funny hat."

"Well I can see that, but what's so bad about it?" she asks, "It's just a hat."

"It's not 'just a hat'," Sherlock hisses, turning his attention to us, "It's all of it: the stupid public image, the headlines, the bloody circle of interviewers at my door."

"They're here already?" I ask, hurriedly going to the window, "But I thought they wouldn't be here until 3?"

"Apparently they're keen," Sherlock says, nudging his head toward the window, I take a look and sure enough there is a small gathering around our stoop. Jesus, they are keen. "You see? This is an inconvenience to me." My husband goes on, rubbing his hands through his curls, "They won't leave until I come out and put on that stupid hat. Why is that thing even still around? Surely, you haven't kept all these years for sentimental reasons, John."

"John hasn't kept it, love, I have." I quip, folding my arms across my chest and raising an eyebrow to him, "It reminded me of you since you weren't here. Sentiment, you know that whole thing."

Sherlock opens his mouth to rebuttal, but then a look of realization comes over his face. He's insulted me-indirectly, yes, but still: "For-forgive me then, darling." He stammers, setting his hands on his boney hips and looking down at his feet, "I…I didn't mean that to sound so-well, what I mean is…"

"Yeah, Sherlock, I know." I say, taking a step forward so that we are toe to toe, "But, love, have you ever thought about using that big brain of yours to think before you speak?" He looks back up at me and sheepishly smiles. I give him a playful smirk and kiss his cheek; I always could make the human side of Sherlock show and that I'm quite proud of.

"But in all honesty, there's no need for all this fuss." Sherlock goes on, completely dropping the hat subject, "Lestrade only asked me to look over a simple homicide. Why would the papers even care if I'm involved?"

"Need I remind you that you've been dead of three years," John points out, tossing the dusty, old deerstalker cap back and forth in his hands, "This is your first public case since your 'suicide'. People want to know about it."

"Dull," Sherlock mumbles with a roll of his eyes, "I've assisted Lestrade on multiple cases since revealing myself to the world, by the way. I haven't just been cooped up in here doing nothing."

"But you've only been consulting in small ways. This is your first big, hands-on, case." John goes on, "A well to do business man found dead in an alley way where he had no proper reason to be; it's a good mystery and The papers want to be in on it. Your involvement in catching the killer simply sweetens their interest whether you like it or not. Now come on, just put the bloody hat on."

Sherlock looks at the hat and sneers at it as if it's the most disturbing thing he's ever laid eyes on. "Go away. I need a minute." he grumbles as he heads toward the bedroom while shaking his head in disgust, "Hamish, can you come here a moment?"

"Here I come!" Hamish declares, stuffing his toy dragon that he's been so seriously playing with under his arm. He manages to get off the couch by himself then waddles his way to Sherlock's side. His father scoops him up into his arms and they walk down the hall together, chatting with one another in hushed voices. I can't help but smile; nothing brings me more joy then seeing those two together.

John watches them then looks at me as if for some help in this argument, but I just smirk and shake my head. When Sherlock has made a decision, there is no budging him. He's stubborn and that's an understatement.

"What do you want me to do?" I say,

"Talk to him, maybe," John says, "He's throwing a fit over nothing."

"But you know how much he hates it," I go on,

"Come on, Fee, just…talk him into it?" John suggests

"Fine, but I don't know what good it will do," I reply. John chuckles and hands me the deerstalker. I look the hat over for myself; it is rather ridiculous, that's for sure.

"John and I will leave you to it then," Mary says with a smile, "We can look over some of these wedding magazines you gave me while you and Sherlock work things out."

"There's nothing to work out," Sherlock shouts out from the other room, "I'm not putting on some form of costume just to please a few cameras."

"Oh for goodness sake," John mutters under his breath, pinching the edge of his nose in annoyance, "you are a child, Sherlock."

"Come on, love," Mary coos, taking his hands into hers, "Lets head downstairs for a bit." John looks to his fiancé and gives her a genuine smile of love. He's so happy with her; He deserves to be that happy, truly.

"We'll meet you guys downstairs," I say, playfully pushing them to the door, "Have some alone time. Give us…15 minutes?"

"If you can make him budge in that amount of time." John says with a smirk.

"Hey, come on. This is me were talking about here." I tease, "I can make Sherlock do anything."

"I heard that!" my husband calls out from down the hall and then we hear the bedroom door slam. John and I exchange a look of understanding and just nod to one another. As much as we both love him, neither of us would deny the fact that Sherlock Holmes can be a child at times.

John and Mary retreat down the stairs and I head to the bedroom. Once I reach the door, I pop my head inside to see Sherlock lying on the bed with one arm around Hamish, who has curled up close to his side, and the other dangling off the edge of the mattress. His eyes are shut and I can see his chest rise and fall with heavy, rhythmic breaths. He's deep in concentration, possibly slipping into that mind palace of his.

"Dad," Hamish says, making his way to lie on Sherlock's chest, "what doing? Why we go in here?"

"I'm thinking." Sherlock answers rather bluntly, "Sometimes I like to come in here to lay down and just think."

Hamish nods in understanding and nuzzles his little head under Sherlock's chin: "Dad," Hamish whispers, "mad?"

"No, I'm not mad, son." Sherlock replies, stoking the toddler's back, "Why would you think that?"

"Shout at John."

"Ah, well, I guess it may have sounded like I was mad. No, Hamish, I'm not mad at John or at anyone for that matter."

"Then why shout?"

"I was…just upset. Let's just lie here quietly for a bit, alright?"

"Oh-tay."

A small smile grows across my lips as I tiptoe inside the room. Slowly, I take a seat beside Sherlock's outstretched legs. He doesn't stir even as I set a hand atop his knee. "Headache?" I ask even though I already know the answer.

"Mhm," he groans, " Just a small one; I'll be fine, love."

"Do you want something for it?" I ask, "I think there's some Aspirin in the bathroom."

A wide smile grows across my husband's face: "Aspirin," he says with a deep chuckle, "Funny you would offer that to me."

"Is it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

Sherlock slowly opens his eyes about halfway and gives me that signature half mouth smirk of his: "Don't you recall my last run in with that drug, darling," he says, "or have you blocked that nearly fatal incident from your memory?"

I take a moment to think and then the light bulb goes off in my brain.

Ah, yes, now I remember: The set-up/murder of Jonathan Monroe and the eventual arrest of my former flat mate and friend Hattie Weston.

I haven't thought about it in years, but that doesn't mean I've completely forgotten it. That awful case was when I had to step up not only as Sherlock's girlfriend, but as a sort of detective as well. Sherlock had fallen ill-Aspirin poisoning, curtsey of my former best friend-and I almost lost him for good. It was horrible, absolutely and utterly horrible. Yes, I grew as a human being during that time, but even that is not worth almost loosing the man I love.

That was the same case when I fist came in contact with Moriarty. Chills run up my spine as I recall that horrible man's voice echoing in my ear: the hiss of his insults, the sting of his challenge. God, he was a horrible man. Sherlock told me what happened to him on the rooftop of St. Barts and, to be quite honest, I have mixed feelings about it all. Yes I'm relived that he is no longer apart of our lives, but part of me can still feels like there's more to this puzzle. Why would he kill himself? To me, it just doesn't make sense.

"Elfie?" Sherlock asks, setting a hand on my thigh and breaking my train of thought.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry." I say, running a hand through my hair, "I, uh, got lost in my thoughts for a second there."

"Ah, I see. Locked in a mind palace of your own, then." He says with a smirk. I smile back at him and place my hand atop his. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Hamish quietly sucking his thumb and holding his plush toy close to his chest as he begins to fall asleep but keeping his sea foam eyes completely fixed on his father as if he could disappear at any moment.

"He looks more and more like you everyday." I say, motioning my head toward our son.

Sherlock smiles and looks down at Hamish: "He does a bit," he says, kissing the top of the boy's head, "The eyes and the hair are definitely from my side of the family, but I think he has your nose." My husband then turns his gaze back to me, "But you didn't come in here to talk about our son's genetics," he goes on, "You want to discuss this press issue."

"Sherlock, love," I say, running my fingers over his knuckles, "why…why don't you just want to get this over with? Don't say it's because you don't want to wear the hat because I can tell that there's something more than that. This whole thing will be over before you know it, so why not just go do it?"

"Yes, but then what about the next case I do, and then the next one and then the next one and so on?" He asks, "The press are never going to leave us alone, Elfie. Things won't be like they were before: They will be around more than ever and they'll start picking up on things."

"What things?" I ask.

"Our marriage, for starters," he goes on, "the papers love to write up a good public romance and that' exactly what they'll do with us. The detective who faked his death and the woman who waited for him: it's headline gold."

"Oh and then there's the issue of my health. It's still not at its best and probably won't be for quite some time; I still have days where I can't even get out of bed. And God only knows what will happen when Hamish is old enough to start school and begins to understand whom his father is. Cameras and reporters will be everywhere and I…I don't know if I want to raise my son in that kind of environment."

"You're making it sound like we don't have a choice," I reply, "Sherlock, you and I can get through this and as I told you before we don't have to give in the press. You never have, so what difference does it make now?"

Sherlock takes in a deep breath and looks down at his son. Hamish just looks back at him with a wide smile, still trying to fight off the sleepiness. My husband's eyes suddenly have a watery haze to them; is he…crying? Sherlock rarely ever cries. What's going on in that mind of his? "Maybe…Maybe I shouldn't do this anymore." Sherlock finally says in a quiet voice.

"How do you mean?" I ask, picking up on the sad tone in his voice

"I mean that I don't know if I can live like this anymore, my darling." He clarifies, looking back at me, "Elfie, I…I've been considering the option of retiring. For the first time in my life, I'm not entirely sure if I want to do this anymore."

My eyes widened with shock and I'm completely taken back by his statement. Retiring? No, no way. Sherlock is his work; anyone has ever met him knows that about him. Without work, what would he do? Could he even properly function? It's bad enough when he's bored and waiting for the next case, I don't even want to think about what would happen if there weren't any cases at all. Besides, he's too young to stop now and there is far too much he still has to do.

I open my mouth to say something on the matter, but Sherlock puts his fingers to my lips to stop me: "Don't panic or anything just yet, darling. I…I haven't made a final decision on the matter." He goes on, "But for now just listen to me, alright?"

Reluctantly, I nod. Sherlock does anything without thinking it all the way through, so perhaps he has a good reason behind this ridiculous thought. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock takes in a deep breath and slowly sits up, cradling Hamish in his lap: "I honestly don't know if I can do this anymore, Elfie," He goes on, "I'm not the man I was, nor will I ever be. I've seen things and experienced life in a whole new perspective then I did before; it's not just my work and me anymore. I have to take care of you and Hamish and everyone else close to me for that matter."  
"Sherlock, what would you do with your life if you didn't work?" I ask him, "These cases, chasing criminals, solving puzzles: that's your world."

"No, my family is my world." He states rather matter of factly, "I…I never had a true family, this you already know. But then, when I took up this line of work, I started developing one:

First, Mrs. Hudson took me under her wing and treated me as her own. I was a low-life when I helped ensure her husband's execution. When that case was finished, though, she looked out for me, offered me a home and warmth that I could turn to when things got rough and never turned me away. She was more of a mother to me then my own mother.

Then, there was Lestrade. He trusted in me to solve these cases when no one else would. I know I don't often show it, but I am grateful towards him for that and I always will be.

Above that, of course, there was John. My-my first real and true, friend: my best friend, in fact. He broke me out of my hard shell I guess you could say. Before him, I kept to myself and had close to nothing of a social life. John showed me that the world isn't just full of idiots and mysteries. He showed me that there is good in this world and people like him who are meant to help people like me. He taught me how to be a human being and without him, I honestly don't know where I would be."

Sherlock pauses for a moment to smile and softly stroke my cheek: "Then there was you," he says, gazing deeply and lovingly into my eyes, "You, my darling, darling girl; the historian who came out of nowhere and fired up my heart. I thought I was incapable of loving someone, but you proved me wrong as such is your way. You have given me something I never knew I was without: a real reason. A reason to wake up every morning and face the day's dull events. A reason for solving these cases, not just for the mystery and challenges it brings. A reason to come home to this life after three long years of being away from you and living in absolute despair.

I'm not making an official decision on the matter right now, but…but please know that it is a serious consideration of mine. My life once use to be all about cases and everything that they entailed, however I've discovered that there are more important things in this world; things that I could truly never live without. If giving up the work means getting rid of this unnecessary limelight and keeping my family safe, then so be it. I love you, Elfie Marie, and please don't be angry with me."

It is quiet for a while between the two of us. What can I say? What is there to say? This is a side of Sherlock that I never thought I'd see, nor that I ever knew he had in him. For as long as I've known him, solving crimes were apart of whom Sherlock Holmes was. When becoming part of Sherlock's life, one becomes apart of the work as well. One cannot be without the other…sort of like we are.

"Sherlock," I say in a quite voice, trying (but failing) to hold back tears, "I…I don't know what to say."

"That's perfectly fine," he says with a smirk, "and, perhaps, that monologue was a bit over the top, I admit."

"But that's who you are," I lightly chuckle, cupping his face in my hands, "You're my brilliant, over the top, genius and I love you. I will always love you, Sherlock, no matter the choice you make. But know this, okay? You are Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective: not just because the papers say so, but also because that's who you truly are. You have created this life and have helped so many people, myself included.

Raising Hamish out of the spotlight and living our lives is going to difficult, as such is the way of life, but I'm not afraid. I trust and love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I believe that you don't have to give up the life that you've worked so hard to achieve. I do and always will believe in you Sherlock."

Without uttering another word, Sherlock and I bring our lips together for a deep kiss. Things are never going to be the same for us; I realized this the day he came back into my life. But I have every bit of hope that we will pull through just like we always have. Yes, Sherlock is not the same man as he was before but I don't see how that will set us back. We have gone through so much in the short time we've been together that it has made our relationship stronger. I'm not going to let him give up on this life he's built and I know he would do the same for me if our roles were reversed.

I love him and I always will.

When we finally part, Sherlock clears his throat and situates his hold on Hamish, who has fallen asleep; "Well, then, um, shall we?" he says, slowly getting up off the bed, "You're right; this will be over in a blink." I give him a small smile and dry my eyes on my sweater sleeve. Sherlock then takes one of my hands into his and pulls me up to stand beside him. Our eyes lock in a loving gaze as he nuzzles his forehead against my own: "I love you, Elfie Marie."

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes." I reply. We exchange another quick kiss and then head out of the room. I take Hamish into my arms while Sherlock puts on his coat and scarf. He gives himself one more look over in the mirror and then turns to me.

"How do I look?" he asks with a quick turn.

"Almost perfect," I tease, situating Hamish on my hip. Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion but then rolls his eyes when he sees me pick up the deerstalker from where I had set it on the coffee table. I hold it out to him and give him a stern look: "There's no use in fighting it. Just put the bloody thing on."

"Fine," he grumbles, snatching the hat from me. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock turns toward the mirror again and puts the cap on his head. I let a small giggle escape me. His curls are sticking out the sides making the already silly hat look even sillier. Sherlock gives me an annoyed look, but takes me by the hand nonetheless as we head downstairs. At the foot of the steps, John and Mary are waiting for us.

"15 minutes on the dot," John says, looking down at his watch, "I am impressed, Fee."

"Told you I could do it," I tease, "and did you notice the hat?"

"How could one not," John chuckles, "You look…"

"Not a word on the matter, John." Sherlock hisses, "Not a single word." John just laughs and follows Sherlock to the door.

Mary quickly goes over to her fiancé to place a kiss on his cheek. Sherlock watches them exchange a few quiet words and then looks back at me; his eyes are just as mesmerizing as ever that it makes my heart skip a beat. I smile at him and nod. He simply nods back and straightens his back. John and Mary slowly part and the former army doctor turns to his best friend.

"Ready?" he asks with a hand already on the door handle.

"Yes." Sherlock replies "Open the door, John."

John nod and does so. The flat is immediately filled with the mix of reporter's voices calling Sherlock's name and the click of camera flashes. Sherlock gives me one more smile then swiftly steps out to face the press with John at his side. Mary and I wait a beat and then head up the stairs to wait for them to be done.

"So this is how things are going to be from now on, huh?" she asks me, "John and Sherlock will just go off on a case and leaving us to just wait on the sidelines?"

"No, not on the sidelines." I say, "We are part of it all, Mary, trust me on that."

"I don't know if I can put up with it like you have," she says, "I worry to much."

"So did I at first but you'll get use to it. Yours and John's life will change, that's a given, but trust me when I say that it will be for the better."

Mary gives me an affirmative nod and heads up the steps to the living room. I linger back for a bit and look back over my shoulder at the door.

_'We're going to be okay,'_ I tell myself as I kiss the top of Hamish's head, _'we are really going to be okay.'_

_The End_

_**Hello lovelies,**_

_**So this isn't the ending I originally had in mind but I am happy with it. Hopefully you all are as well. As I stated before, I have another "Elflock" story in the works and will be posting that soon. It will be a bit darker than my previous stories with these two as I will be delving into Sherlock's drug habit and the emotional roller coaster he and Elfie will be facing and …Well, I won't give you too many spoilers ;)**_

_**Thanks as always for your love and support. You all are so fantastic and it truly warms my heart when I receive responses from you guys so by all means keep it coming.**_

_**Thank you so much from the bottom of my heart! **_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon**_

_**Much love and many thanks Xoxo**_


	22. Chapter 22: Note

_Author's Note_

Hello!

Sorry for those who thought this was going to be a surprise chapter.

BUT, there is a surprise…well, sort of…kinda…yeah.

I have just uploaded the first chapter of the next story _Fare Thee Well._

I plan on making this one darker then the previous stories (expect some Elfie/Sherlock angst among other things). I also want to take a crack at writing from Sherlock's point of view for a couple of chapters. Wish me luck because getting into the mind of one of the most complex characters in literary history is no walk in the park.

Any who please go check it out and I hope to update soon.

Much love and many thanks xoxoxox


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